


dearly detested

by starsfoil



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Regency, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Found Family, M/M, Unresolved Emotional Tension, the ship is more implied than anything, the yoshizawa twins make a brief appearance but nothing more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28763307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsfoil/pseuds/starsfoil
Summary: the night of the sakura ball, the marquis sakura is found dead in his own home, and what is first an investigation into a crime he had committed himself quickly turns into a plot to throw his father and the legacy he had built to the flames.let it never be said that goro akechi does not make bad decisions.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 1
Kudos: 28





	dearly detested

**Author's Note:**

> hey there, thanks for peeking in. this fic took a loong time to come together but here it is! thank you to capra for the [lovely art](https://twitter.com/cunningcapra/status/1349972757912629253?s=20)! come find them [here](https://twitter.com/cunningcapra?s=20).

The night sky is a dark tapestry, pale dots of stars sewn into its seams, and in the spaces where it is quiet, where it is dim, there are those like him who slip through. He need not sneak in like some common thief, nor charm the doorman like a swindler. He has come far in this world, he will go further still, and with each step he takes, he grows closer yet to the victory he seeks to hold in his grasp.

A flash of a beige envelope is all that it takes to get him through the front gates, several steps more and he adjusts his mask, a little black thing, elegantly decorated but not overtly so. Enough to conceal his identity, masking the left half of his face and covering a sufficient amount of the right. He is plain, meant to be forgettable, and by the same time the next day, none will realize he was ever here.

“Some wine, my good sir?” he is offered as he steps through the doorway to the ballroom, doors thrown wide open in celebration. Here, the nobility gathers and rejoices. Tonight, the clock will strike midnight and the social season will officially begin.

He denies the drink and continues his leisurely stroll through the room. On behalf of his employer, he means to ensure that this year’s season begins . . .

(His hand briefly pats his suit pocket, which no guard had stopped to check. If one looked closely enough, they might have recognized the faint outline of a gun through his attire. None look closely enough.)

. . . with a _bang_.

He lingers for a few minutes more, idling his time by smaller groups of people, or in the spaces where there are none at all. If any think to question the presence of the unintroduced, black-masked man, they might find that this strange man did not exist at all. After all, if no one remembers him, was he truly there?

His wanderings take him back to the ballroom doors, and he glides toward them with an elegant ease, dipping his head toward one of the servants holding it open.

“Might I inquire,” he asks coolly, “the direction to the gardens? I would appreciate a little fresh air, and I have heard tell that the Marquis Sakura’s gardens are second to none.”

“Of course, sir,” the servant hastens to reply, and a few hurriedly dictated instructions later, he has set off in their direction.

He does not truthfully wish for fresh air, though had he truly meant to attend the ball without any ulterior motives, he might have found himself in the gardens of his own accord. Alas, of ulterior motives he has plenty, and when he finds the branching path the servant boy had mentioned—one left to the gardens and one right to lead to the manor’s private wing, he had said—he turns himself to the right, shifting his posture so he does not look nearly as out of place as he feels.

“Good eve,” he remembers to greet any stray passersby on his path, though they are few and far between. After all, more forgettable is the polite man over the rude one, though he hesitates for a moment at the sight of the young Lady Futaba Sakura, accompanied as always by the Sakuras’ steward, one Master Akira Kurusu. It would be impolite to duck his head and bustle past, though it is his instinctive reaction.

“Good evening, milady,” he instead murmurs as he passes.

She casts a curious look in his direction, though if the expression in her gaze is probingly inquisitive or merely a passing glance, he cannot tell, for Master Kurusu is quick to hurry her along as her steps slow. One moment, then another, and they are around the corner and out of his sight.

He thumbs one of the daggers at his waist—how queer, that the collection of blades on blatantly display at his hip were never subjected to further questioning, far too normalized as decoration in this strange society—and readies himself for the final turn in this hall. For months, he has pored over old maps and records of the estate’s layout. Unless he finds himself faced with the very unlikely scenario of a renovation since then, there will be two guards posted outside of the Marquis Sakura’s door.

He pauses just at the turn, wondering how he might go about luring them from the posts, before the decision is made for him. In the distance, he can almost hear the far-off yelling from partygoers, too out of the way for their words to be properly made out. It would serve as a suitable distraction for the time being.

“Help!” he finally cries, pitching his voice higher than usual, stumbling out from behind the corner. “Help, please!”

Their brows furrow, and one begins to step forward, but he only cries out louder, “Please, you must help them!”

“Sir, please calm down. This is a restricted area.”

“What business brings you here?”

He pauses for a moment here, faking several seconds to catch his breath. “There was . . . a fight . . .”

“A fight?”

“The guards posted at the ball should be able to handle it.”

“No, no, no,” he says as he straightens, shaking his head and raising his hands to emphasize the point. “A group of—of commoners! They stormed through the doors, a big flurry of a crowd! Next thing we knew, the room was complete chaos! Some of us tried to make for the doors, but . . .” He quickly covers his mouth, cringing. “Oh, it was simply awful. You mustn’t make me relive it. However, still stands the point that they require you help urgently! They attacked several of the guards and injured many. They are already struggling to restore order.”

The angry yell that echoes down the hall is a happy coincidence, though perfectly timed.

“Please!” he adds to punctuate his plea of help. “Some of my friends are still stuck in there—my sister! Oh, goodness, my sister, please you must hurry!”

The two exchange a look, but already he can see that their resolve to stand at their post has faltered.

“Alright, sir. Thank you for coming all this way to fetch us.”

“Please hide somewhere safe. Once we have dealt with the intruders, we will personally come fetch you.”

“My sister, please!” He grabs onto one of their arms, allowing every bit of desperation to creep onto his face. The effect must be striking because the guard makes no further arguments.

“As long as it is within my power, I will save everyone I can.”

When they are long gone, down the hall and out of sight, he is quick to try for the door. He has not much time, after all, until they inevitably discover are no uninvited guests running wild at the ball and scurry back. It is unlocked, which is indeed positively careless of them, but he pushes it open and slips quietly inside.

His plan at stealth is foiled, however. Before him stands the Marquis Sakura, arms crossed and half-dressed, his suitcoat discarded on the side. The man regards him with something almost akin to caution, then sighs.

“Hello, Goro.”

He only frowns as he draws his gun, aiming it squarely at the marquis’ head., but his upset expression dissipates at the brief look of horror that crosses Lord Sakura’s eyes.

He tilts his head to the side, flashes a saccharine grin. “Now, now. You’ve foiled my surprise, Lord Sakura. That’s not very polite of you.”

Lord Sakura shakes his head. “I knew it was only a matter of time before Masayoshi sent you after me,” he remarks with a weary smile. “How did you find out? I always thought that you had known somehow when you stopped visiting, but I never learned how you came to realize it.”

“You are not a subtle man,” he says. “It certainly was not hard, in any case, and you were not sly in your gathering of evidence. However, that is not what I am here to discuss. By the order of my lord—” He steadies his grip on the gun, keeps his aim true. This is neither the time nor place for him to falter. Not here, not now. Not when he is so close to victory and freedom. If the price he must pay to be free is in blood, he will shed another’s. “—I sentence you to death.”

“Goro, I wanted to save you.” Lord Sakura takes a step forward. “If I just had the time, I wanted to—”

“Sinners pay in blood,” he interrupts as his finger squeezes the trigger. “And you are out of time.”

_BANG!_

He frowns again at the newly made body on the floor and crouches down next to it. “My lord, you really must understand by now . . .” Quiet words, whispered into a dead man’s ears, “. . . there is no room for _want_ in this world, if you have not the will to _take_.”

When the guards stood at the marquis’ doors hurry back to their posts, they are too late. They find the door cracked open, their master’s body dead within, and the window behind him thrown wide open, swinging wildly with the wind.

  


* * *

  


Goro Akechi does not sleep that night. He so rarely does after such an assignment, though he goes through the motions of winding down for bed regardless, even if only to give himself that same sense of normalcy that he oft finds himself missing.

He sets his gun down on the shelf by the door, sheds his coat and tosses it aside, reaches with one hand to peel the glove off the other before hesitating as he pinches the fabric in his grip. He grits his teeth and leaves them on. Perhaps on some other night, he could have borne taking them off, but not tonight.

No, his thoughts cannot be silenced tonight.

He cannot bring himself to settle into his bed, and instead he wanders toward his window, tapping a finger against the fogged glass, watching idly raindrops slide down. Lightning flashes and thunder booms. Outside, it storms. In his stomach, a similar feeling is churning.

There is a cup of coffee waiting for him on the nearby table, still warm to the touch. He wonders who might have left it there, then remembers the maid that his father had sent to spy on him. He raises it to his lips, sets it back down without taking a sip.

_“Why do you cry?”_ whispers a voice, and he turns sharply toward the rest of the room. Empty.

“I am going mad,” he mutters through clenched teeth.

_“Why do you not grieve?”_ the voice whispers again, but he ignores it, turning back to the stormy night. How fitting, that the weather matches his mood. _“Murderer. You killed him. You killed him without a second thought. He trusted you and you killed him. Now, why do you deny your heart?”_

Something in his stomach twists, and he feels like he might hurl. He closes his eyes and swallows it. He cannot afford this.

He does not know how long he stands there, staring out at the dark streets, casting away the voice that echoes in his mind, but it matters little. Time stops not for the rest, even if in death another is frozen. This is how, come morning, Goro finds himself beneath the land where the Shido Estate stands, a knife to the throat of one of Lord Kaneshiro’s servants. He would have preferred to have the viscount himself under the blade, but his father was not quite done with that one yet.

“Tell me about your master,” Goro begins casually, almost as though they are having an everyday conversation over tea. “He has been holding out on us as of late.”

“I don’t know!” he cries out. “Please, please . . . I don’t know anything . . .”

He has not even drawn blood, and the man is already sobbing. It is precisely why he has chosen this servant amongst the many that the viscount employs, the fact that he had been the easiest to lure away aside. It is so much easier to pry information from the mouths of the already willingly. He has no intentions of spilling blood yet, but his reputation precedes him already, it appears.

The door opens behind him and Goro sighs, barely turning his head to look. There is, after all, only one other person with a key to the old cellar. “What is it, Nijima? If you insist on barging in while I am working, I _will_ be changing the locks on those doors.”

“ _Detective_ Nijima?” the servant squeaks. “Please, help me!”

“No, not the detective. I would not get your hopes up, were I you.” At last, he turns, finding his old companion leaned against the doorframe. “I had no intentions of killing this one, you know. Look what you have done.”

“Don’t lie to me, Akechi,” Nijima says, “I know who this is. I would be more surprised if you let him leave with his life.”

“Mm,” he hums in response, turning back to the cowering man. “It only makes sense that a dirty man scurries off to work under a man just like him. Sold his wife and his daughter for a pretty coin, then found himself alone and without work. Tell me—” The knife comes to rest beneath his chin, the blade tapping once, twice, thrice against skin. “—was everything you lost worth everything that you gained? What _did_ you gain, exactly, except for a new life serving under a crooked man?”

“I—”

“Shh,” Goro hushes him. “I did not want an answer.” He turns back to Nijima with a scowl. “Now, I await _your_ explanation at any moment. Do make it worth both my time and this man’s life.”

“A letter from the Sakuras.” She holds up a black envelope, marked with the Sakuras’ bright red seal. “My sister asked me to deliver it to you.”

“Your sister,” he says plainly, though he walks forward to take it. “Pray tell, what business does Sae have with Lady Futaba’s affairs? Last I heard, the new Marchioness Sakura was refusing to take visitors.”

“Few people can turn down the law when it come knocking. My sister turned up the morning the news broke. Even Lady Sakura could not turn her away.” Nijima shrugs, turning back toward the stairs. “Regardless, as their top detective, the case is under her jurisdiction now. Is there anything you want to confess in the meantime?”

“It will be dropped soon,” he says simply, setting the envelope aside. “In any case, I do not quite know what you mean to imply. The eve of the Sakura Ball, I was in the company of my father and his acquaintances.”

“What of Loki, then?”

Goro only smiles politely. “I beg your pardon? I do not see how my father’s dog could have been involved in a _murder,_ Nijima, come now.”

“You must think you’re so clever.”

“I do, indeed.” He gestures to the door. “Similarly, I am sure you eagerly await the day you can stop serving under your father’s contract to mine. You will run straight to the authorities, will you not?”

“Believe me when I say I’m counting down the seconds.”

“It must pain you to know that your father was not as good a man as you believed him to be. Good day, Nijima. Give your sister my regards.”

The door slams behind her and he laughs as he glances back at Kaneshiro’s servant, still frozen in place.

“Now,” Goro muses as he stalks back to his side. “Where to begin with you?”

  


* * *

  


You would never be able to tell he had just been in the company of a dead man from looking at him. Indeed, Goro Akechi is as impeccably dressed as one would expect from the company that a marchioness keeps. As he steps into the lavish gardens of the Sakura Manor later that afternoon, the sight of the funeral set up at the end of its stone path nearly sends a pang to his heart.

But only nearly. This is a man—in heart, he is still only a boy, really—that cannot afford his heart. He has long ago sealed it away. Chain up his heart, lock up the cage, and toss away the key. Whatever he thought of the late Marquis Sakura, and whatever his feelings toward him had been, there is no time to dwell on it.

“Goro.” Futaba awaits him at the path’s end, her arms crossed. Her lips press into a thin line at the sight of him. “Thank you for coming.”

Something inside him stirs at her casual use of his first name. A year since they had last seen the other, and yet she is no less quick to open up to him than she had been since then. So bright the fire that burns within her, and at times he wonders if it is perhaps a part is missing when he sees her so alight and him so dull. However, now she barely burns, the light within her so dim that he can barely see it all.

“Futaba,” he says quietly, testing her name on his lips. It fits so strangely, after much time of disuse. “Of course I came. Thank you for the invitation.”

“Might I . . .” She glances around for a moment, her gaze darting around anxiously before it returns to him. “. . . speak to you for a while? In private, if we may.”

“Of course, milady.” He bows briefly, gesturing for her to lead. “I am happy to accompany you.”

“Excellent.” A gloved hand tugs gently on his own, leading him back down the garden’s stone path and to a quieter corner. No crowds await them here, no one at all, save for the black-haired man that he recognizes as the Sakuras’ new steward.

“Oh, Master Kurusu.” He glances at Futaba, but she waves off his concern as she perches on one of the benches, staring idly into the bushes before her.

“Good day, Master Akechi,” the man greets him in turn with a deep bow. “You will have to forgive my lady for her reluctance to speak as of late. Try as I might, I can barely get a few words out of her myself. Even Morgana struggles to get so much as a smile from her.”

“Akira,” she says, “I am still _here,_ I hope you know.”

“Ah,” Master Kurusu says, catching himself. “You have my apologies, my lady.” He does not look particularly apologetic.

“None of this _lady_ stuff now. I haven’t officially taken Sojiro’s title yet.” He shares a glance with Master Kurusu, but both refrain from pointing out the fact that she has been a noble, and therefore a lady, since her birth, regardless of her claim to Lord Sakura’s titles. She glances at him and motions for him to sit. “You as well, Akira. Both of you, stop standing around so awkwardly and take a seat.”

For a moment, they all go silent as they settle onto the lone bench in their quiet corner of the garden, observing the birds that flutter by and the swaying of the plants in the light wind. Still, Goro itches to break this unbearable silence, and so he does.

“What did you wish to speak about, Futaba?” He cuts a look to Master Kurusu, then corrects himself, “ _Lady_ Futaba. When I first received your invitation, I could not imagine that you had invited me to Lord Sakura’s funeral without at least a few ulterior motives. Your invitation arrived at quite literally the last minute, and we did not exactly part on the . . . best of terms.” That is only putting it lightly, for the terms they parted on were simply nonexistent. One week, Goro had been visiting the Sakura Manor every free hour he had. The next, he simply . . . stopped.

They have not seen each other since.

“We can forget about that,” she says, though he doubts she will truly let it be forgotten so easily. “I wanted to hire you for some work, Goro, if you will have it.”

He already knows what it is she wishes to ask of him, so he beats her to the chase, cutting in before she can speak again. “You honor me with your trust, but I am a private investigator now, Futaba, and this is a matter under jurisdiction of the law. Similarly, I am in no position to be collaborating with the police, what with my dishonorable discharge from the force. If I go anywhere near one of their case’s, I have no doubt I will be arrested without a second thought.”

“You always could read my mind,” she murmurs offhandedly, then raises her voice again. “And if I check back in a week or two when the case has been dropped? What then?”

“Well, as long as the case is not technically closed, it would still be—”

“Goro.” She looks at him, staring until he turns to meet her gaze. “You never cared much for the law before, and you will not convince me that you have started to care for it now. Tell me the truth, and if the answer to my request is no, then I will find another.”

He grimaces. “That is . . . exactly what I fear. There are only so many that you could possibly hope to convince to your case. The others that I have come to know are not particularly willing to cross the law, in any case.”

“I’m not hearing a yes.”

“You are not hearing a no either.” He stands and brushes himself off, turning back to the path to lead him back to the event. “You will check back in a week or two, is that not what you said? I will expect your correspondence then. Have a good day, Lady Futaba. Master Kurusu.”

When he is out of their sight and out of their hearing, he perches himself on one of the stray benches of the Sakura Manor’s garden and buries his head in his hands, wondering how, exactly, he always manages to find himself back where he started.

_“First with Sae Nijima, then with Haru Okumura, and now with Futaba Sakura,”_ croons a voice. _“You appear to have a talent for it.”_

“Shut up,” he snaps, the decides he truly is going mad.

  


* * *

  


True to her word, half a month later he has the pleasure of welcoming Futaba and Master Kurusu into his humble office. It is a small thing, far removed from his father’s outlandishly lavish estate, but he finds it more than enough to house him and his work.

“Lovely,” Futaba remarks as she steps through the doorway, scanning the room with a curious eye. “So, this is where the genius of famed Private Investigator Goro Akechi takes place.”

Goro strides over to the single, large window in his office, overlooking the street below, and pulls its curtains closed, dropping the light in the room to that of the few lit lamps around the room. “One moment,” he says, circling the room to light the rest of the oil lamps. “You will have to forgive me if I wish to keep this meeting as private as possible. I am not on the best of terms with Sae, and I doubt she will be particularly pleased to hear of my involvement in yet another one of her cases.”

“Understandable,” she comments mildly. Not very talkative today, this one, though her eyes cannot seem to linger in one place for very long.

He takes a seat in his chair and gestures across his desk. “Please, take a seat. Let us get to it.”

“Is there anything to discuss?” she asks, leaning forward. “Is it a yes or a no, Goro? No more of this beating around the bush.”

The answer should be no. There is no reason for him to accept this case, no reason for him to dig deeper into the death of a man that _he_ had murdered himself. Still, something tugs at his chest, perhaps a part of the humanity that he had lost long ago, something that tells him to say _yes_.

So, “Yes,” he says, knowing that further down the road, he will come to regret it. “I’ll do it.”

And how can he regret this decision when it causes her eyes to light up with that familiar light, the antsy energy that has possessed her since her arrival slowly seeping out. How can he look at her, who thought of him as a family when he had none, and say no to her plea?

He cannot, is the correct answer, the only answer.

He cannot say no to her.

_“Ah,”_ a voice murmurs, _“there is your heart.”_

The strangest thing is that the voice is starting to sound so much like his own.

  


* * *

  


These are the terms of their deal:

It had first been agreed upon that regardless of her constant insistence on being involved in the matter at hand, Futaba would have nothing to do with their law-breaking. If ever it came to light, the blame would lie with Master Kurusu and himself. So new to the title of the Marchioness Sakura she was, and they all doubt it could take the blow that such a revelation would hit it with.

The second term, in correlation with the first, was that Goro would be working together with Master Kurusu on his investigation. Non-negotiable, though he had tried anyway. “If I’m not allowed to come then Akira can be my stand in,” had been Futaba’s exact words.

“What if I don’t want to be your stand in?” her companion asked.

“Do you not?”

“I—”

“Great. Moving on.”

The third and last of their terms had been put into place by Goro himself.

“You,” he said gesturing toward Master Kurusu, “will not get into my way.”

“What part of working together did you not understand?” Futaba asked, but Master Kurusu only laughed.

“I’ll be more helpful than not, Master Akechi. I can assure you of this, at the very least.” He leaned in closed, pressed his lips into a polite smile. “Just stay out of _my_ way too.”

“I find it hard to believe that you’ll be of much use to me. What do you have to offer?”

A flicker of a grin. “You’ll see.”

Now, Goro meets Master Kurusu in the abandoned warehouse, several blocks away from the local police headquarters. Dressed in all black, the bottom half of his face obscured with a similarly dark-colored cloth, he suddenly looks the part of the criminal he had been beginning to sound like.

“It appears I did not come quite as well-prepared as you did,” he muses as he takes the other man in. “You could have at least warned me of your plans, Master Kurusu.”

“You can call me Joker,” Master Kurusu says, and though his mouth is concealed by the cloth, Goro can almost hear the smirk in his voice. “Come on, we don’t have all day,” he continues, brushing over the fact that he had just introduced himself as _Joker,_ the thief that had long plagued to police department while he had still been employed there.

“ _You_ are Joker?” Goro asks, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. Joker disappeared half a decade ago. He has not been seen on the streets of Tokyo since.”

Master Kurusu— _Joker,_ rather, only laughs. “You’ll find the timelines match well enough. I had a change of heart, you could say. If you don’t believe me, I can show you rather than tell.”

“By all means,” Goro says, “though I have already noted that I am not dressed for the occasion.”

“Oh”—Joker holds a hand to his chest, feigning hurt—“you wound me, Master Akechi. To assume that a master thief such as myself would come unprepared when with a partner?” He gestures to a basket in the corner, bundles of what he can only assume is clothing peeking out from within. “Something there should be enough for you, I think, and if not, you can handle a tight fit, can’t you?” He turns around as Goro starts toward the basket of clothes. Turns around . . . why? To preserve his dignity? He almost has to laugh.

“Remind me,” he says, continuing his line of questioning as he goes through the articles of clothing, “why we could not just request a copy of the report?”

“Ah, because Sae Nijima will surely be quick to hand it over once she learns that _you_ are the private investigator we hired for the case.” Joker adjusts his gloves, a bright red, despite the monochrome color schemes of the rest of his clothing. “Regardless, I just wanted a chance to show off.”

“So, this is for your pride.”

“Perhaps. What if it is?”

“Nothing. It is simply a foolish endeavor.” A brief pause as he changes out of his coat, then, “Does the red not defeat the purpose of black clothing?” he asks, turning back to face Joker.

The other man only shrugs, affixing a white mask to his face. A look closer, and Goro recognizes it as the original Joker’s mask, matching even the black detailing around the eyes. Master Kurusu is, then, either telling the truth, or has come prepared to tell a very convincing lie. He is inclined to think the former, but the night is still young.

“I’ve always worn red gloves, and I haven’t been caught yet.” He can see the ghost of a grin behind the cloth covering his mouth. “Maybe I just had a bunch of incompetent fools working on my case.”

Goro contemplates putting a bullet through the other man’s skull and ending both of their sufferings before they can begin, but decides against it. Killing Joker is much more trouble than it is worth.

Then again, there is still time for his mind to change.

“Alright.” Goro mimics the other man and ties a stray piece of cloth around his face to obscure the bottom half of it in lieu of a mask, then nods. “Lead the way, if you so insist on showing off. I can judge your skills for myself.”

Joker winks as he throws the warehouse doors open and emerges into the night. “I promise I won’t disappoint.”

Indeed, before he can even offer help when they reach the headquarters’ front doors, Joker has picked the lock and is already slipping inside, the door falling shut with a soft click behind his hastily departing figure. Goro stares after him for a moment through the frosted glass, then wraps a gloved hand around the doorknob to open the door for himself when he sees the other man pause to glance back at him.

“Getting slow, old man?” Joker murmurs in his ear when he catches up.

Goro shivers, but only snaps back in a quiet whisper, “Surely I am not that much older than you, if at all.”

“How old are you then?” he asks as kneels before another door—Goro immediately recognizes it as Sae’s office, an office that has once been _his_ —already at work to pick the lock.

“Twenty-five.”

“Twenty-three, sorry grandpa. Don’t worry, I’ll slow down, just for you.”

He grits his teeth as the door to Sae’s office swings open and Joker rises to his feet, already sliding inside.

“I am going to stab you,” he swears under his breath as he follows suit, glancing around the hall before shutting the door.

“Hm? What was that grandpa? Didn’t catch it.” Joker is already digging through the file cabinet in the back of the room, somehow creating a perfectly unorganized mess in his quick but thorough searching. Goro loiters by the door to watch him, only for the other man to wave him forward. “Come on. Detective Nijima’s filing system is atrocious. I don’t suppose you would know anything about it?”

Goro snorts, striding forward. “It is arranged alphabetically. Even a child would be able to figure that out.”

“Well, I’m looking at the letter _s_ and I’m not seeing anything do you’ll have to be a little more specific than that.”

“No, no.” Goro grabs his hand to stop him from making any further of a mess, then gestures to the small label reading _murder_. “By crime first,” he explains, flicking through the files under the category—Akiyama, Amamiya, Amari—until he comes across the beginnings of names starting with _s_. “Here,” he says after a while, tugging out the file neatly labeled _Sakura, Sojiro_.

“Good job, investigator,” Akira says, his voice just dripping with a sickeningly sweet tone. “You aren’t useless after all.”

“You seem rather intent on pushing all my buttons on this evening,” Goro comments mildly as he flips through a few pages of the file, then tucks it under an arm. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“No thanks.” Joker haphazardly returns the files he had extricated from Sae’s file cabinet, then lingers for a while longer, hand hovering above the _murder_ section again. “Go ahead,” he says, motioning toward the door. “I just need to make sure I have everything in their right places.”

“If you insist.” Goro offers him one last glance before leaving the room.

He is in no particular hurry to leave, so he instead casts his gaze around the dark and empty hall. It has been several years since his dismissal, but it looks just as he remembers it, plain white walls, dotted only with the occasional framed painting. To his right the front doors, to his left the break room. In front of him, the hall turned, leading to more offices and empty rooms.

“We need to hurry,” Joker suddenly says, appearing by his side.

“Why the rush?” he asks, but when the other man takes off toward the front doors again, he follows expectantly.

Over his shoulder, he shoots him a small smile, the cloth obscuring his face turned slightly translucent in the moonlight. “I might have been spotted by one of the guards outside.”

_“What?”_ Goro demands as they reach the doors. “Why are we going for the front doors when—”

“Shh, now is not the time for questions, my friend.” _Friend?_ Of everything that they are, _friends_ is certainly not one of them. “When I open the doors on the count of three, make a break for it okay?” A second case file is shoved into his hands before he can protest. “Take this too. Don’t lose it, alright? I’ll distract the guards.”

“What is this? Don’t tell me you’ve stolen something else—”

“Three.” And he throws the doors open.

“Hey!”

“Stop right there!”

“Good luck, my friend!” Joker shouts as he sprints right at the guards. “Let’s meet up later!”

“He has an accomplice!”

“No, impossible! Is that Joker?”

“ _The_ Joker?”

Joker winks and lets out a jubilant laugh. “Why, the one and only! Come now!” He dances circles around the two guards, light on his feet. “I haven’t had the chance to stretch my legs like this in a while.” A dagger appears in his hands before Goro can even process what is happening, the barest hint of a wickedly sharp grin on his face. “Let’s dance, then!”

_If that fools gets himself into more trouble than just robbing the police headquarters in the dead of night,_ Goro thinks as he makes a break for it, the guards still stunned by the reappearance of Joker, _I_ will _kill him myself._

That, at the very least, he can promise.

  


* * *

  


It is only half an hour later that Joker returns to the abandoned warehouse, eyes blazing with boundless energy.

“That was the most fun I’ve had in a while,” the other man says as he pulls the warehouse doors shut.

“What took you so long?” Goro asks, straight to the point, setting aside the file he had been perusing in the meantime. “Any longer and I would have assumed you had either been arrested for theft or for murder.”

“Neither of the two, luckily.” He discards his mask with a flourish, then tugs off the cloth around his face in a similar fashion. “I just needed them off of my trail. I wasn’t about to lead them back to my hideout. Where would I go then? Still, very persistent, those two. Back in my days of petty theft and grand larceny, I never had to deal with anyone nearly as determined.”

“About that,” Goro starts.

“About what?” Master Kurusu asks, eyes still gleaming. “The petty theft or the grand larceny? Myself, I find both equally as exhilarating.”

“No, about your _hideout,”_ Goro says, gesturing around. “This is Amamiya property.”

The gleam in his eyes flickers out and dies. “It is. The Amamiyas are also dead, so I don’t quite know why it matters. The main faction of that noble house all died in a fire a decade ago.”

Goro raises an eyebrow. “Alright. How did you know this was Amamiya property? It is not publicly listed in any of their records. _And”_ —Goro raises the file he had just set aside—“you went through the trouble of stealing the file they had on that case. What connection do you have to the Amamiyas, and why is it so important to you?”

“It doesn’t matter, because as I see it, this is not relevant to the case.” Master Kurusu leans forward to pick up the filed labeled with the deceased Marquis Sakura’s name. “We have what we came for and I have what I wanted to pick up along the way. So, why not just call it a night here, investigator?”

“I would prefer to end the night with an explanation, Master Kurusu—”

“Oh, just drop the title,” Master Kurusu abruptly interrupts, and edge to his tone. “I did not work particularly hard for it, in any case.”

“Master Kurusu—”

“Kurusu.”

Goro looks him straight in the eyes. “ _Master_ Kurusu, I—”

“For god’s sake,” Master Kurusu mutters, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. “If I give you an explanation, will you drop the title? You would think after almost getting arrested together, we would be a few ways past the formalities.”

Goro does not allow the smirk to show on his face, but nods for him to continue. “I await your explanation with all due haste, _Kurusu_.”

The smile on the other man’s face is far too bright than the dropping of his title should warrant. “Nothing interesting, I’m afraid. I was just friends with the son of the Amamiyas. If you know him, he was—”

“Ren Amamiya,” Goro finishes quietly.

Kurusu does a doubletake. “You know—know _him?_ ” he asks with wide eyes. “That’s a surprise.”

“No, I was never acquainted with him,” Goro is quick to say. “I just know his name. It’s part of my job, after all.”

“What, as a private investigator?”

He scoffs. “No. As my father’s son.”

Ah, he did not mean to say that.

Kurusu shakes his head. “Sometimes I forget that the great Private Investigator Goro Akechi is related to . . . _him_.”

“Oh?” Goro shoots him a sideways glance. “Have something to say about my father?”

His answering laugh is cold enough that being doused in a bucket of ice water might have the same effect. “Nothing nice, believe me.”

“No one ever seems to have anything nice to say about him.” Goro shrugs. “Understandable, really. He is an abhorrent man.”

“Not the reaction I was expecting from you about your father.”

Goro flashes a bitter grin. “Anything you have to say about him, I will likely echo tenfold. I am not blind to the kind of man my father is, behind his noble persona.”

“As much as I would like to stay and insult your father, I have other duties to attend to.” Kurusu reaches out for the file on the Amamiyas still in Goro’s hands. He hesitates for a moment, then relinquishes it. “Thank you,” he says with a brief smile. “I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, Master Akechi.”

“Akechi.”

Kurusu looks a far cry more startled than he should. “What?”

“You asked me stop using your title, it seems only fair that I reciprocate kind.” Goro stands, retrieving his coat. “My title was not earned either. I was only given it because of who I was born as.”

“As who?” Kurusu asks as he turns to go.

Goro shoots one final look at the other man over his shoulder. “As my father’s son.”

  


* * *

  


The days pass slowly. It is tedious work, boring work, having to pick each piece of evidence and convince Kurusu nothing will come of it. That man—barely a man, still partly a boy, and just like him in some ways—is persistent, as stubborn as the marchioness he serves. It is almost impressive how his untrained eyes pick up on details Goro has purposely tried to obscure. Only almost, because his cleverness is more infuriating than impressive, and not a day goes by that two sides of him are at war on whether he should applaud Kurusu’s efforts or strangle the man out of frustration.

This is, perhaps, why Goro does not even realize his birthday is fast approaching, occupied as he is with hiding his tracks, though he did not leave many. Few are the days that Kurusu does not check and recheck every piece of evidence they have for some sort of clue, leaving Goro to follow suit and ensure that he discovers nothing from the file the police had assembled, before ultimately abandoning the case. Nearly two months since Lord Sakura’s death, a month since they started working it. One day, Kurusu will tire. For now, the man seems to have boundless motivation.

Goro stops asking how Kurusu gets his information. The other man seems content to not offer up an answer. Each day is almost a mirror image of the previous, so much so that Goro could relive the same day over and over again and never notice.

Yet today, the monotony is broken. Today, something in their exhausting cycle seems to shift, seems to break.

The second of June arrives quietly and with little fanfare, like the gentlest of breezes carried by faint winds. It is only another day, just a day like any other, yet Goro stalls as he rises from bed, hesitates at the door. He does not celebrate his birthday—why should he still mark the passing of time when he knows he will soon be gone? Still, something in the air has him set on edge. His birthdays have not had the best track record for going well. He doubts this one will be any different.

When Goro enters the sitting room that has become their base of operations this past month, the papers that littered ever surface of the room are gone. Where there had once been piles of rushed schematics, a notebook or three of whatever strange theory they had gone and thought through, there is simply nothing.

“Good morning, Kurusu,” Goro greets, balancing a tray of tea all the while. Indeed, the other man is the only remaining piece in the equation that makes up their usual day, still perched in his same spot on the sofa. “Anything in particular that you would like to tackle today?”

“There is nothing left,” the other man snaps through gritted teeth. “Why is there nothing?”

“I know.” He sets the tray down, then moves to sit across Kurusu. “I have been telling you since we began this investigation. Whatever it is you hope to find, I am afraid there is just nothing left to reexamine. I have, of course, already spoken to Futaba about it.”

“And?”

Goro shrugs. “And we are in agreement. I am sorry to say that there is nothing more we can do. It was her request that the case be dropped. She expressed concern over the toll this investigation has taken on you.”

“It was barely an investigation to begin with,” Kurusu says bitterly. “We didn’t find anything.”

He had always assumed that Kurusu would eventually snap. Failure and failure, again and again, who would not tire of the constant frustration and disheartenment? Still, Goro must say, he had been hoping that Kurusu would have at least held on a little longer. He is almost . . . disappointed, at this anticlimactic ending to their acquaintanceship, though it is well within what his expectations had been.

“Indeed,” he agrees, leaning forward to pour himself a cup of tea.

“You don’t seem particularly disappointed or upset.”

Goro glances up sharply, his lisp twisting into a thin smile. “Careful with that tone, Kurusu. We would not want to make any insinuations now, would we?”

Kurusu leans forward in turn, the familiar spark of fire lighting up his gaze. “Oh? And what is it that you think I am insinuating, investigator? If you are innocent, then there is surely nothing to hide?”

He sets his teacup down with a clatter. “I took this case,” he hisses in a low voice, “with the expectations that I would find _nothing_. I took this case because I owed Lord Sakura and I owe his daughter even more. So, I do not appreciate your tone, _Master_ Kurusu. Neither the way you have said it nor the implications behind it.”

“What am I implying, investigator? What is it about my tone that has you on such high alert?”

Goro has taken one step too many toward this argument, one step too many in the opposite direction of where he had been running. For Kurusu is right, of course. Why should an innocent man worry when he has nothing to hide?

Goro has something to hide. He always does.

Too clever for his own good, this Akira Kurusu. He almost reminds Goro of himself.

One breath, another. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply. When he opens them again, he speaks, “I apologize, Kurusu. I did not mean to snap at you. With . . . previous experiences of false accusations, I simply do not take kindly to your implications, especially with how unfounded they are.”

“Who said they were unfounded?” A flash of that roguish grin breaks through the intensity burning in his eyes. So similar, the fire that burns in him and Futaba. It is no wonder that they were drawn together. Kurusu leans back and shakes his head. “No, I should apologize. I was just provoking you.”

“You are frustrated. It is understandable.” Understandable, maybe, but it does not stop Goro from wanting to put a bullet through the other man’s head to end his own suffering and Kurusu’s both. They are apologizing, perhaps, but neither apology feels particularly sincere.

“Bad time, then?” They both whirl toward the door at the sound of Futaba’s voice, where the Marchioness Sakura peers into the room from the door. “I heard raised voices from down the hall, so I came to check in on you both.”

“My apologies, Futaba. I was just explaining to Master Kurusu that we had agreed this investigation has come to a halt. He seems averse to the idea.”

“Why are you giving up so soon?” Kurusu asks his lady, but even Goro can tell that he already knows the answer.

“I’m sorry, Akira,” Futaba says quietly, finally stepping inside the room and shutting the door behind her. “I know that this is the closure that you wanted.”

“Do _you_ not want it?”

Futaba hesitates, rounding the sofa to settle herself next to Goro. Something in his chest warms at the fact that she has chosen to sit next to him instead, but it fades even quicker than it had come. “I . . . I _thought_ I did. But no, Akira. This was not the closure that I needed. I don’t . . . I do not think I ever really cared who killed Sojiro. I mean, of course I wanted to know, but it was not the end of the world if I never figured it out. I could live with not knowing, even if it might have killed me inside eventually.”

“Futaba . . .” Kurusu says quietly, slowly rising to his feet, but Futaba stops him with a shake of her head.

“No, I—” Her voice cracks, and she shakes her head again. “I was _scared,_ alright? Everyone loved Sojiro and everyone wanted to know him and when he died, I was scared that no one would want me. I was scared that . . . that I would ruin everything he built up. I was scared, and I’m still scared, and I don’t want to disappoint him.”

Goro glances at Kurusu, but the other man appears to be at a loss for words, and his teeth dig into his bottom lip as the silence stretches on. Goro speaks, when it becomes exceedingly clear that he will not.

“Alright,” he says, gently turning Futaba toward him. “We will have none of this self-deprecating _bullshit_. Lord Sakura would be proud of you, and if he is not, then he and I can have a long talk about it when I die. Your legacy should never be about living up to your father. There is no point to chasing after things that you cannot ever catch. When people think about the Marchioness Sakura, they have to think of _you,_ not your father, or his father, or whoever else came before you.”

“Ha . . .” A hollow chuckle escapes her lips. “I did not know you cared so much, Goro. You could have saved me a lot of crying, you know.”

“It’s good for you to cry. You cannot keep everything bottled up forever.” Not that he speaks from any specific experiences. Goro Akechi does not cry.

. . .

Goro Akechi cries sometimes, but only when he is alone.

“I’m sorry, Futaba,” Kurusu says after a few long moments. “But I need to know, I _have_ to know. I can’t let this be another—”

“I know,” Futaba says before he even finishes. “It’s alright, Akira. I know.”

The room falls into silence again, and this time no one makes a sound to break it. Kurusu leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. Goro’s head slumps and he lets out a quiet sigh. Futaba leans her head against his shoulder as her tears start to dry.

He does not know if she means to doze off, in the strange yet almost comfortable silence of this room, but she does, head still leaned against his shoulder. And he decides here and now that he will never be able to offer her a family—not in the way she would want it, not in this world, not in this life—but he can offer her this, at least, and maybe it can be enough.

Still, Goro knows the truth. Nothing he does will ever be enough to pay her back for all she has done.

  


* * *

  


_It is the first of April and Goro is standing at the edge of the crowd. In any other circumstances, he would never be caught in attendance of the Sakura Ball, would likely never even receive an invitation, but here he is now._

“Dance with me,” Lady Futaba said, holding a hand out to him. When he hesitated, the only daughter of Lord Sakura laughed, a brilliant smile lighting up her face. “You’re Sojiro’s new friend, right? Detective Goro Akechi, famous in all of Japan for his quick wit and smarts. I’ve heard of you.”

“I would not call my relationship with Lord Sakura a . . . friendship.” He shook his head. “Forgive me, I’ve neglected to show the proper respect to a person of your station. Lady Futaba, it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance. I will be working quite closely with your father, so I expect to see you often.”

“Mhm.” She held her hand out again, taking his hand when he did not make any moves to take it. “I’ll look forward to it. Now, dance with me.”

“I am not the best dancer,” Goro said, pulling away with a polite but strained smile. “You would be better off dancing with someone else, milady. Besides . . .” His gaze drifted across the room to where the Marquis Sakura and his lady wife stood, arms linked together. “I’m afraid that I am here on business tonight.” He studied her for a moment longer, then added, “Either way, I don’t believe you wish to dance with me, regardless of the circumstances. You simply wish to know what your father is up to.”

Lady Futaba regarded him with a cautious look, then her gaze drifted over to her parents. She closed her eyes and shook her head, sighing. “I suppose the title of Ace Detective is not wasted on you. If I did only want information, what of it? One would think that as their daughter, I would be entitled to that much. I am not a child anymore.”

“No,” he agreed, “you are not. I have experienced a . . . similar feeling, before.”

“Will you tell me anything?” she asked. There is no hope in her eyes, just a bright determination. Even if he offered her nothing, she would find a way. He had been the same way, once. Now he had his own ways to find information, even if they were not exactly the most legal. How far would she go to discover the truth?

_Not everyone turns to work for a mad man of a father in their desperate search for information. Not everyone is you._

Goro studied her again for a moment longer, then bowed and offered her a hand.

“Well, Lady Futaba, will you dance with me?”

She grinned, taking his hand in hers. “Absolutely.” Then she leaned in closer, lowering her voice so that no one else could hear save for them. “Tell me everything.”

_It is the twenty-third of May and Goro is alone in the sitting room. Lord Sakura has long since retired to his chambers for bed, but he had been offered the rest of the pot of tea, and considering the long night still ahead of him, he had not the heart to deny it._

“You are a difficult man to find, you know that?”

“I don’t agree, no.” Goro glanced at the only door to the room, cracked open just a hair’s breadth. “In fact, I’d say I’m quite easy to find, seeing that I do visit often enough. You might even say I’m here more often than I am my own home.” He was. His mind was not quite made up on whether it was a good or a bad thing.

“You were just with Sojiro, right?” The door opened to admit one Futaba Sakura, still dressed in her day clothes. It shut quietly behind her. “He’s hiding something from me again. What is it?”

Goro took a small sip of his tea— _still too hot_ —and gestured to the empty seat next to the sofa where he was sat. “Your father is always hiding something from you, Lady Futaba. This time is no different.”

Lady Futaba did not sit, standing stiffly by the door. “Except this time _is_ different.” Then lower, “Something is wrong with mom. Do you know what?”

Goro did, in fact, know what issues were plaguing Lady Sakura. The Marquis Sakura had just confessed the details of it that evening, asking for his father’s assistance in the matter before swearing Goro to secrecy. He took no such vows, but he left the lord with a promise to not tell his daughter.

After all, how could you ever tell someone that their mother was dying?

“Alas, I do not.” At her disbelieving look, he sighed and set down his teacup, offering her his complete and undivided attention. “Come now, Lady Futaba. I would not lie to you. We have a deal, do we not?”

“I don’t think your promise to feed me information is anywhere near formal enough to be considered a deal.” She eyed him carefully, then slowly inched toward the chair to his left, pouring herself a cup of tea before curling up in her seat. “But you do have a deal with Sojiro, don’t you? Tell me about that.”

“I am afraid that is confidential.”

“You seemed perfectly fine with telling me things before.” The look in her eyes turned wary, regarding him with just a small hint of suspicion. “What changed?”

“There wasn’t a contract before,” he said simply. “Now there is.”

_It is the fifth of June and Goro is just about to depart from the Sakura Manor. He stands from his seat, bids the Sakura family good evening, and tugs on the fabric of his gloves as he makes his way to the door. His tics are few, but this is certainly one of them. Lady Futaba has noticed._

“I’ll walk you!” the young lady called out, just before he could step into the hall. There was a brief moment of hesitation as Goro exchanged a glance with the lord and lady of the house, but Lord Sakura only waved him off, and Lady Sakura only offered a kind smile.

_They trust me,_ he thought. _Perhaps a little_ too _much._

It had only been two months. So why did they feel more like a family than his father ever had?

“I am well familiar with the way, Lady Futaba,” he said at last, turning his gaze to her as she was already halfway out of her seat. “But if you insist, I am always happy for your company.”

He tugged down on his gloves again. He had always felt . . . too _exposed_ within these halls, but especially so tonight.

She was out of her seat in what seemed like a record time, pulling him down the hallway before he could properly say goodbye to her parents once more. She says nothing for a long while, simply leading him down the long hall, toward the manor’s front doors. Then she stops. Turns to him. Frowns. Sighs.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” she asked, her hands on her hips. He supposed she meant to look threatening, but it only brings a slight smile to his face. “Or will we just stand here forever?”

“Nothing is wrong,” he answered, always quick to lie. The smile vanished. “How could you have possibly come to that conclusion?”

She gestured toward him as a whole, then pointed at his gloves. He was tugging on them, once more. He stopped. “You always do that when you’re nervous.”

“I don’t get _nervous,_ ” he snapped, then realized he had returned to pulling on the fabric of his gloves. He made an annoyed sound, then slumped against the wall, sliding down until he was seated on the ground.

Lady Futaba follows suit, seating herself right next to him. “So? What’s going on, mister I-don’t-get-nervous?”

“Nothing that should concern you, in any case.”

Stubborn, as always. She just did not know when to let up. “Is it something with your job? You’ve looked tired recently.”

“Oh, thank you,” he said, shooting her a glance and hoping she would take the hint. “I’m glad to hear that.”

She elbowed him in the side. “Hey, I’m just worried about you, idiot. There’s no need to sharpen your wit here. I’m not coming down on you with pitchforks and torches.”

“Perhaps not.” He started tugging on his gloves again, the discomfort of being vulnerable creeping up behind him. If he pulled them low enough, if he covered himself up enough, would it go away? “Regardless, there will always be people after me. That is the nature of my profession.”

Lady Futaba’s eyes go to his hands again, but she does not comment on it, instead saying, “You must really be nervous, huh?”

“I . . .” He sighs deeply, twisting the fabric with his fingers. “I suppose.”

“Going to tell me?”

“No.”

“Somewhere to be?”

“Not . . . exactly.”

Goro was running. He was always running.

“What would you do if I told you I was a criminal?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you? I suppose you are not planning to rob my father and run off?”

“Not at all.” He glanced at her, shot a wry smile in her direction. It faded just as quickly as he was able to summon it. “Tell me, Lady Futaba. When do you know you have gone too far? When do you know that you have crossed the point of no return?”

Lady Futaba stared at him for a moment then shrugged. “Well, I think only you can decide that. The point of no return only prevents you from returning if you hold yourself back. No one is going to stop you save for yourself.”

He could not be here. He could not smile and laugh and pretend everything was alright. For this first time in what was almost a decade, Goro was faltering, his perfect façade cracking to reveal the depths hidden beneath. He cannot afford this misstep.

He stood. “I should go.”

She stood. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

_It is the seventh of July and Lady Sakura dies in the comfort of her own home, surrounded by friends and family. The Marquis Sakura does not cry. His daughter cries enough for them both. Funny, how it had been a bloodless death, yet when Goro pulls off his gloves in the silence of his empty room, the red still stains his hand. He puts his gloves back on, and he does not look back._

  


* * *

  


Goro does not intend to doze off either, but it is midday when he awakens to Kurusu draping a blanket over his shoulder, Futaba sitting across the room with a cat—its name is Morgana, he reminds himself—curled up in her lap, a book held up in her hands.

“Oh,” Kurusu says, sweeping the blanket off his shoulders. “You are awake.”

“My apologies,” he mutters, rubbing at his eyes. “I did not mean to doze off. I should be going, regardless, if we’ve decided to halt the investigation. I have other work that needs to be done.”

“Anything investigation related that you cannot share?” Futaba asks as he stands and moves toward the door.

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Do you think you could take Akira with you, then?” she calls after him as she flips the page of her book. “He has been restless all morning and it is going to drive me to insanity if I have to continue watching him pace.”

“I—” Goro starts, then immediately cuts himself off as he turns his gaze to the other man. He is, in fact, pacing around the room, his shoes tapping a soft rhythm against the floor. “Fine,” he says instead, gesturing toward the door. “Kurusu, let’s go.”

The other man still continues to say nothing, but he follows obediently out the door, after bidding the marchioness goodbye with a brief bow. In lieu of turning circles around a room, his fingers now tap a nonsensical pattern against leg whilst he trails after Goro.

“You are only accompanying me to pick up a commission from Madarame for my father. Afterward, I am bringing you straight back here.”

Kurusu hums in response, then says nothing more. Even when they emerge into the sunlight, the Sakuras’ steward is uncharacteristically—or perhaps characteristically? Goro is not sure—silent, lost in whatever thoughts he is ruminating upon in his head. Even the city seems to have settled, and they cross few on their way to the small shack that the artist Ichiryusai Madarame calls home.

“Ah, Kitagawa,” he greets the artist’s protégé, seated on the top step of the porch stairs. “Sketching again?”

“Master Akechi.” Kitagawa looks up and tilts his head to glance at Kurusu, then turns his gaze back downward. “And Akira. I see you two are acquainted.”

“Acquainted might still be too strong a word,” Goro says. “Begrudging allies could serve us better.”

“ _Hello_ , Yusuke,” Kurusu interrupts, almost as though he can tell that Goro was about to go on a tangent about whatever the relationship between the two of them is. “Your home looks just as run down as ever. Futaba’s offer to hire you to work for her personally still, of course, stands.”

“Thank you, Akira, but I must decline again.” Kitagawa barely glances up to look at them, careful strokes dancing across the empty sheet of paper before him. “I already do not have enough time to handle the assignments that sensei gives me, and I still have much to learn before I could even consider it.”

“Speaking of assignments, Kitagawa, Madarame would not have happened to assign you to working on the commission for my father? I am here to pick it up.”

“Ah, that painting. It is one of my finer works, I believe. I worked from sundown until it rose again to finish it. The muse truly is what it is: a beast with a mind of its own. I dare not try to tame it.”

“Ah, lovely.” Goro clasps his hands together. “Might I go pick it up, then?”

“It requires careful handling, Master Akechi. Allow me a moment, and I can fetch it for you.” Finally, Kitagawa draws one last line on the page, then sets it aside to stand. “And Akira,” he adds, glancing at Goro’s companion, “my offer to you still stands as well. I would be honored to paint you.”

The laugh that escapes Kurusu’s lips is bashful, a sound Goro does not think he has ever heard from the other man before. “I am, of course, honored that you would want to paint me, Yusuke. Still, like you, I must decline.”

“A shame. Allow me to fetch your father’s commission, Master Akechi. Perhaps you might ponder on whether or not you would like to be my muse?”

Goro smiles ruefully. “I’m afraid not, Kitagawa, but I thank you for the offer.”

A tired sigh is the sound he leaves them in as he steps inside, leaving both Goro and Kurusu to stand outside.

“Kitagawa is certainly an odd one, at times. You both are friends, then?”

Kurusu shrugs. “As close as a famous artist’s protégé and a noble house’s steward can be, though we have known each other for much longer than I have been working for the Sakuras.” Goro waits for him to elaborate, but he does not, and the silence is instead broken by Kitagawa emerging with the painting in hand.

“Handle it carefully, Master Akechi,” Kitagawa warns as he hands it over to him. “I will be happy to paint another one if anything were to happen to it, but it would never be the same. Extend my thanks to your father for his commissions as well, if you would please.”

“Of course. He is always singing your praises.” That is, strictly speaking, not true. Goro’s father barely gives Kitagawa’s work a second glance, but the young artist need not know that. “Thank you for your time, Kitagawa, but I must be going now.”

“Yes, yes,” the artist murmurs, already focused on his work once more.

“Where to next, Akechi?” Kurusu asks as they step back onto the streets.

“ _You_ will be returning to the Sakura Manor. I, on the other hand, still have matters that must be attended to.”

“Nothing I can stay around for?” Kurusu smiles slightly. “That’s not good for my curiosity, you know. The more I hear of your mysterious duties, the more I simply have to know. You might as well take me along, no? I’ll just follow you if you don’t.”

“The answer, and my final answer, is no.” Goro nods to bid him farewell, then sets off in the direction of his father’s estate before Kurusu can protest.

“Hey now!”

“I said no. Farewell, Kurusu,” he calls over his shoulder. “Ask after Lady Futaba for me, please.”

“Insufferable,” he thinks he hears the other man say before he moves out of hearing range.

The walk to the Shido Estate from Madarame’s home is short, a journey he has made many times before on preliminary visits to check on Kitagawa or to pick up one of his father’s commissions. Now, as he makes the trek back, he takes a moment to enjoy the silence. The closer he grows to the estate, the less people he runs into. If there are any benefits to being his father’s son, this is perhaps one of them.

“Master Akechi!” He does not even realize that he has arrived until the jarring sound of his name being called out breaks through the silence. He raises a hand in greeting, and gates swing upon before him. “His grace requests your presence in the sitting room at your earliest convenience.”

“Oh?” Goro remarks. There is only one reason, after all, that Goro is ever summoned by his father for his company.

It appears the Shidos have a visitor.

“Thank you for letting me know,” Goro continues with a pleasant smile before he starts his way down the gravel path, stones crunching beneath his heel. The front doors are opened before he can even call out, and he inclines his head in thanks to the doorman before handing off the painting and setting off to navigate his father’s maze of an estate.

It takes him a bit longer than he is willing to admit before he stumbles upon the sitting room, a soft melody drifting out from its open doors, and he waits a moment, out of sight, to fix himself up.

“With all due respect, your grace, Akechi is late. We need to proceed with this meeting if we would like to keep everything moving according to schedule.”

“Ah,” comes his father’s voice, “you certainly have a way of reminding me of your father. Let us give Goro a moment longer, then we can begin.”

Finally, content with his appearance, he steps out from behind the doors, offering a quick smile in greeting. “Father,” he says, nodding toward him, then inclines his head to Makoto Nijima, sat in the chair next to him. “Nijima.”

“No greeting for me?” comes the voice of Junya Kaneshiro, the Shidos’ guest for the afternoon, and he is just as irritating as Goro remembers him to be, though he covers up his flicker of annoyance with a hearty laugh.

“Only saving the best for last, Lord Kaneshiro. Good afternoon to you as well, of course. I apologize for my tardiness. I was little held up with Madarame.”

“Let’s begin,” Nijima says, not sparing him even a single glance as he perches himself on the seat next to her, refusing to sit anywhere near the viscount. She and his father appear to have had the same idea. “I can’t stay long, or my sister will start to wonder.”

“Surely she would not question that a lady such as yourself keeps the company of men such as his grace?” Lord Kaneshiro asks, a leering grin on his face. It is almost enough to make Goro want to stab him. From the way Nijima clenches her fist, she must agree.

“My sister, _Detective_ Nijima, would not appreciate that I keep the company of criminals,” she puts it plainly, then turns back to the matter at hand. It is almost amusing, how she fails to note that she too is now works in offense of the law, regardless of her own feelings on the matter. A criminal in denial is still a criminal, and he thinks that perhaps they are the worst kind.

“We are set to meet the client at ten, in the quaint restaurant by the Amamiyas’ old estate,” Nijima says. “The fake has been dealt with?” She does not look at him, seemingly determined to keep her eyes on the sheet of paper she writes upon, but they all know that it had been his assignment.

“Of course,” he replies, his tone sickly sweet. “Just before I arrived, in fact.”

“And?” she prompts impatiently.

“Ichiryusai Madarame is nothing but a master artist, and his pupil has far surpassed his talent. Yusuke Kitagawa’s forgeries might as well be the real thing, for how accurate they are.”

“A yes would have sufficed. Lord Kaneshiro, you will be accompanying Akechi in lieu of his grace, who will be unable to make it tonight to serve as his first representative. I will serve as his second.”

“What?” Lord Kaneshiro gestures to Goro. “His grace’s spawn isn’t good enough to serve as his own representative? Oh, that’s right.” He already knows where this is going, but his hands ball into fists anyway, and he scowls. “Little Goro here is a bastard born.”

“Akechi will be attending as _Loki_ ,” Nijima cuts in, and he refuses to admit that he is grateful that she has, but deep down inside, he knows the truth. “Unless you would like to reveal to our client that the infamous criminal Loki is, in fact, his grace’s son, then you will keep your mouth shut on the matter.”

“Why, you—”

“Lord Kaneshiro,” his father smoothly interrupts, and the mere sound of his voice is enough to stop the viscount in his tracks. “As with her father, Makoto Nijima is one of my most reliable confidants under contract. _You_ are expendable and she is not. I would caution you not to question her again.”

It is strange, is it not? Goro knows just as well that Nijima could not hate his father more, and yet she relaxes slightly at his words of praise before tensing again, catching herself. Then again, his father is not a duke for nothing. Beyond the makings of a master criminal, Masayoshi Shido is also a skilled noble, and he excels at getting just what he wants.

His father has a . . . way with words, you could call it. His mother liked to say that Goro inherited it from him, but Goro knows that his father’s true skill lies is in looking into your heart and finding your deepest desires, that he might exploit them for his own gain. Goro is simply good at talking.

That aside, he would rather set himself on fire than be likened to his old man.

“As I was saying,” Nijima continues, picking up from where she had left off, “Lord Kaneshiro and I will serve as his grace’s representatives, and Akechi will, of course, attend as Loki. Should everything go as scheduled, there will be no need for contingency plans.” Rarely do Nijima’s plans ever go awry, and this one should be no different, simple as it is. “Tonight will be no different than any counterfeiting scheme that we have conducted. Still, if things do go wrong . . .”

“Goro.” He glances at his father. “It should not, but do not hesitate if it does.”

Alas, for Goro, things rarely seem to go as planned.

  


* * *

  


“Ready?” Nijima asks from the doorway. She is dressed not in a dress, but a suit, and Goro thinks that the former would be much more shocking than finding her in the latter. “Lord Kaneshiro is waiting for us outside.”

“A moment longer,” he murmurs, straightening his mask and brushing stray strands of hair away from his face. Loki’s mask is far too suffocating on nights like these, but it is a little too late for a change in his criminal counterpart’s aesthetic. He takes a step back and sighs, not at all satisfied with his appearance, but a moment longer and they will be running late.

“Akechi.”

“Alright, I am coming,” he says and turns toward her. She is leaned against his doorframe, as he often finds her, but when he starts toward her she takes a step out into the hall and vanishes from view, calling out for him to hurry up.

“The impatience of that woman,” he mutters under his breath as he rushes out after her, slowing a moment to retrieve his gun from where it sits by the door. She is already seated alone inside his father’s carriage when he finds her, and at his raised eyebrow at their missing companion she merely shrugs.

“It seems Lord Kaneshiro tired of waiting and set out for the meeting spot on his lonesome. A shame, really. I was looking forward to conversing with him.”

Nijima would push the viscount out of a moving carriage if she had the chance, of this he has few doubts, but he takes his seat and refrains from further comment.

“To Leblanc, Master Akechi?”

Nijima answers for him. “Yes, please, and quickly. We are running on a tight schedule.”

“Of course, Miss Nijima.”

“Careful now,” Goro comments mildly. “With that tone, one could almost mistake you for a noble.”

She only scoffs in response. “I could not even dream of having half of a noble’s haughtiness, and I _said_ please.”

The rest of the ride, they spend in silence, content to ignore one another in favor of gazing out the window. Goro keeps his eyes on the rooftops—he means to look at the sky, but it is mostly obscured behind the towering buildings—and for a moment, a blur crosses his vision. He blinks and it is gone.

He rubs at his eyes. He must not have gotten enough sleep.

“Akechi.”

“Hm?” he hums noncommittally in response, his eyes still scanning to rooftops. It takes him a moment to realize that they have stopped moving. “Oh.”

“Yes, _oh_ ,” Nijima says, exasperated. “We need Loki at his best tonight, so get yourself together and let’s go.”

“As you wish.” He checks readjusts mask one last time in his faint reflection in the window, then steps out after her.

Showtime, then.

  


* * *

  


He cares not for the client’s name, nor his insistence on small talk, and when a waiter comes to take their order, he lets Nijima pick something for him. He has no intention of eating, regardless, and after the deal has been sealed, he fully intends to depart. So he lounges in his seat and does his best not to sigh and let his impatience show.

If the restaurant’s staff question why two of the duke’s associates are dining with a minor noble and a masked man, they do not voice it aloud, simply going through the motions of their work. There is no one else to serve, after all. Save for them, Leblanc is empty.

“Loki, will you not drink with us?” the client asks, and from the slur in his voice, he can only assume that he had started before their group ever arrived. “Surely a glass or two would not hurt you.”

“No,” he says, then nothing else. There is no need for him to be kind. After a moment of consideration, he adds as an afterthought, “I would go easier on the drinks, were I you. All of this is on your bill.”

The client sputters, then sets his drink down. “Is it now? I—I see.”

He does not have time for this. “Of course it is,” he snaps. “You picked the location, did you not? Why should we shoulder the cost?” He rubs his temples then gestures toward Nijima. “Well, if you have suddenly lost your appetite, let us get to it.”

Nijima shoots him a wary glance, but at his motioning, she reveals the counterfeit painting from beneath the table. It is a flawless forgery, and even their client’s trained eye does not seem to be able to find a difference. He reaches out for it, only for Nijima to pull it out of his reach.

“Payment first,” Lord Kaneshiro says, and he might find the other man constantly infuriating, but this is a song and dance they have practiced many times before.

“Payment!” the client exclaims, and it is a wonder that he does not put a bullet through his skull, right then and there.

“Yes,” he says dryly, his patience waning. “Do not tell me you intended to not just to make us shoulder the bill, but also take the painting without payment? We do not run a charity here. We will not hand over an original for nothing.”

“B—But! His grace! He promised!”

“He promised a _fair_ price.” He leans forward. “Not _nothing_.”

“I’ve been scammed,” the noble hisses, and this time, he cannot stop his exasperation from escaping in a sigh.

“No, my good sir, _I_ have been scammed. Unless you would like to prove otherwise, you are wasting my time, and my time is a valuable resource.”

“Me? Wasting _your_ time? On the contrary, it is _my_ time that has been wasted! I could have been out elsewhere—”  
  


“You could have been out elsewhere,” he repeats, incredulous. A gloved hand taps against the table, his impatience becoming clearer and clearer by the second. “Where, exactly? Out drinking, spending money that you clearly do not have?”

“I am an esteemed member of high society—”

He laughs. “You are only a minor noble, and you are nothing in the grand scheme of things. Do not flatter yourself beyond what you deserve.”

“Are you trying to scare me? I will not cower before the likes of you! I know what I was promised.”

“You certainly jump hoops to reach your conclusions. You are mistaken on one part, however.” He pats his pocket to ensure that his gun is still safely hidden within it, then offers the client a pleasant smile. “You should be terrified of me.”

Lord Kaneshiro does not startle when he pulls his gun on the noble, only taking a small sip of his drink, but Nijima’s eyes go wide as she throws out a hand in protest.

“Just what do you think you are doing?” she hisses under her breath. “You can’t _shoot_ him.”

“Don’t presume to give me orders,” he snaps back, keeping his aim steady on his target.

“Well, don’t do it _here_.”

Ah, she is learning.

“Fine.” He stands, round the table to grab the noble by the wrist and yank him from his seat. “Last chance to pay in full.”

“I—I will not!”

It is almost admirable, this noble’s determination. The only problem with it is that it will get him killed.

“Then you can pay for my time with your life instead.”

“Wait! Wait, please, help me!”

“Honestly, are you enough of a fool to believe that we would agree to meet anywhere that we didn’t have some sort of hold over? You will not find any hope here.”

“My—my lady! Surely you will not let him kill me?”

Nijima shakes her head. “Just make it quick.”

“Enjoy your dinner, both of you,” he says pleasantly as he begins to drag the struggling noble to the door. “Don’t rush on my account.”

When they are outside, in the alleyway where Leblanc’s entrance is, he releases his hold on the noble, then immediately draws his gun. “Don’t move, or I’ll make sure it isn’t quick.”

“Please . . .” he whispers, but stays in place. “Please, don’t—!”

“That’s a good lad,” he says as he squeezes the trigger.

_BANG!_

“No!”

He whirls around at the sound of a second voice, reaching for one of the daggers at his waist. “Who the hell are—”

He stops. Narrows his eyes.

“ _Joker_ ,” he hisses. “What the hell are you doing here?”

But the other man seems to be at a loss for words, staring forward with his mouth agape. He supposes he is staring at the body.

The _dead_ body.

“You . . . you . . .”

He grabs one of his daggers and starts toward him. “You saw _nothing_ here. If you want to go home with your life, I would suggest turning around and leaving.”

The door to Leblanc swings open. “Goro?”

Joker’s eyes grow even wider. _“Akechi?”_

“You have the most awful timing, don’t you, Nijima?” he says with a sigh, turning back to her. “You interrupt my interrogation, you try to stop me from doing my job, and now you’re revealing my identity. Your contract is not up yet, you know. Any other secrets you want to reveal in the meantime?”

Nijima winces, and for the first time since he has known her, she looks almost apologetic. “Who is your friend?” she asks instead.

“Oh, let us just conveniently ignore that, then. Lovely,” he replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “While we are at it, I don’t suppose you would like to spell out our entire plan to him too? Maybe tell him the person we work for too.”

“You must be . . .” Nijima looks him up and down, then finishes, “Joker.”

A weak smile crosses his lips. “What gave it away?”

“The red gloves. And the mask.”

  
“Yeah,” Joker says quietly. “I figured.” Then, after a moment longer, “So, you two are working together?”

“What she is doing,” he interrupts before their plans can be ruined any further, “is _going home_.”

Nijima nods, slipping past Joker and out of the alleyway. “As he says.”

When she is gone—so quick to escape from any situation, that one—he turns back to Joker, who now has his eyes leveled on him. For a moment, the other man does not speak, then, “Are you really . . . Did you really just kill him?”

He grits his teeth. “It’s my _job_. I will not hesitate to cut your down either.”

“No, stop.” Joker lifts his hands to his face then pulls his mask off, casting it away. “I don’t want to talk to . . . whoever this other persona of yours is.” A step forward, then another, and he finds himself instinctively backing away, only to collide with the corpse he has created. “Let me talk to Akechi.” Kurusu is so close now, and he reaches up tentatively to grip his mask. “Please,” is what he says, but he hears the request for permission.

Goro sighs, and then he nods, and Kurusu tugs his mask off and tosses it aside with his own.

“You cannot tell anyone,” are the first words out of his mouth. “You _cannot_.”

“Akechi, I’m not going to tell anyone.”

He wraps a gloved hands tightly around the other man’s wrist. “You cannot. You _cannot_ tell anyone. If you do—”

“Goro.”

The other man’s use of his first name is enough to stun him into silence, and he releases him in his surprise.

“Goro,” Kurusu says again quietly. “I promise that I’m not going to tell anyone, alright? I just want to hear the truth from you, and no more secrets.” When Goro does not respond after a long moment, he hesitantly adds, “Is this . . . is this alright?”

“No more secrets,” Goro repeats, then sighs, then opens his mouth to tell Kurusu the truth.

There is no time for the full story, so he only tells him the basic gist of it: Goro works under his father’s blossoming criminal empire, has been working under it for a long time. A hitman, a swindler, a thief. He is whatever his father needs him to be, whenever his father needs it. Tonight, the duke wanted a conman. Tonight, the duke got his hitman instead.

“Trust me,” Goro whispers when he finishes, one hand wrapping around Kurusu’s wrist again in a vice-like grip. “Please.”

“I have so many reasons not to,” Kurusu whispers back, his voice barely audible. “So many reasons.”

“I know. Trust me anyway.”

“I shouldn’t,” the other boy says, and Goro’s grip on his wrist slackens ever so slightly as he pulls away to give him space to breathe. Kurusu winds his tie around his hand to pull him back. They are close, too close, but Goro does not know if he wants to draw back or move closer. The decision is made for him as Kurusu pulls them closer still. Their foreheads touch, a sigh escapes his lips. Too close, perhaps, but he cannot think of anywhere else he would like to be.

“I shouldn’t trust you,” Kurusu repeats, his voice barely above a whisper, so quiet that Goro might have missed it, were he not paying attention, “but I do. Tell me how to help you.”

Goro pulls them apart and the spell breaks, and for a moment he wants nothing more than to pull Kurusu back to him and forget the world that is crumbling around him. Yet it looms above both of their heads, the weight of what they had both witnessed. From his waist, he takes a dagger, then flips it and holds the handle out to Kurusu.

“I want to kill my father,” he says plainly. “Will you help me, Kurusu?”

Kurusu takes a long look into his eyes for a moment, and though the action is uncomfortably intimate, Goro holds his stare. “Akira,” he finally says as he breaks his gaze away. “Call me Akira. Please, Goro.” It is more than a request to use his first name, and he can tell, can hear the silent question in the other man’s voice.

_Is this alright? Can we have this?_

The answer is no—it will always be no—but he does not voice it aloud.

“Alright.” He extends the dagger again. “I want to kill my father,” he repeats. “Will you help me, Akira?”

“I think an assassination is the perfect beginning to our courtship,” Akira replies wryly as he takes the blade.

“This is _not_ a courtship,” Goro immediately snaps.

“Of course, my love.”

“Hold your tongue,” is what he says, but his heartbeat tells a different tale.

  


* * *

  


“Master Akechi! Now, who is this darling boy that you have brought with you? It’s not like you to bring friends to a work party. And what happened to that Lady Okumura? She was such a lovely girl, I was simply ecstatic when I heard all about your engagement.”

Very quickly, Goro is beginning to remember his dislike for his father’s parties, and it is not at all aided by the way Akira’s eyes light up with curiosity or amusement with every word the noble lady speaks. Those in attendance are prone to gossip, rumors running wild at even the slightest indication that there is something to be spoken about, and even the foreign queen is no exception to this rule.

“Your majesty,” Goro says, dipping his head to hide the exasperated look that is quickly taking over his expression. “It is a lovely evening, I am glad you were able to join us for the festivities, especially knowing you must depart soon.” He flashes her a smile, inclines his head toward Akira. “This is Master Kurusu. He serves as the Marchioness Sakura’s steward and is a recent acquaintance of mine. I invited him in lieu of Lady Okumura, after we broke off our engagement several months ago.”

“Oh, that is no good,” Queen Estrela Takamaki says with a brief frown. “Though I always thought there was something off about that Lady Okumura. So stiff, so quiet! It is no wonder her father turned out to be a criminal. He could not even raise his daughter right, that Lord Okumura, though he is a lord no longer, I suppose.”

So fickle, these noblemen and women. They know not how to hold an opinion of their own, moving along with the stream and saying whatever they think will gain them favor. It is so blatantly _fake,_ and shamelessly so at that. It is revolting. Even elsewhere, it seems, the practices are the same.

“You will have to excuse us, your majesty.” Goro’s smile here is thin, his resolve to continue speaking with these tiring nobility faltering. If nothing else, Akira serves his purpose as an easy way out. “I promised this one an introduction to some of my other acquaintances. Princess Ann would not happen to be in attendance, would she?”

“Ann? Oh, but of course she is! She and those Yoshizawa twins rushed off somewhere in a hurry. If it were up to me, I would ask her to not speak with them at all. The scandal their mother caused! It is no good to be associated with people like that. Still, her heart is bigger than is safe for her own good. I truly do not understand what—”

_“Thank you,_ Queen Estrela,” Goro interrupts before she can finish. “My apologies but we must hurry off now. Princess Ann asked me to promise her a dance, and I still need to acquaint him with those three.”

The foreign queen blinks, stunned into silence, before her mouth curves into a delighted grin. She clasps her hands together, then hurries to shoo them off. “Oh, of course! Please, I am sure Ann would be thrilled to see you, Master Akechi. It was wonderful to see you again. My, how you have grown!”

Goro does not think he has changed much in the few months since he has seen her last, but it is an escape from this awful conversation, and he is quick to drag Akira along with him.

“She seems to like you,” the other man comments now as Goro guides him through the crowd. It parts almost instinctively around them, for if they do not know him as the duke’s son, then they surely know him as Loki. Even then, if they do not know him as either, they will ultimately know him the previous ace detective of the police force and the current private investigator to look out for. Akira does not seem to notice—at least, he makes no mention of it if he does—but Goro feels their watching eyes all around him. He pulls Akira along faster.

“She likes the _idea_ of me,” is his only reply. He sees Sumire’s bright red hair in the distance, Ann’s unique hairstyle, Kasumi’s usual look of loving exasperation, and walks even faster.

Akira laughs, evidently amused. “Oh? Pray tell, what is the idea of Goro Akechi?”

“The perfect boy, a proper man, the kind of person you hope to marry your daughter off to. The child of a man so rich and so powerful that you’ll never have to worry about yourself for the rest of your life if you manage to woo his son and earn his hand in marriage.” Goro turns to look Akira in the eye for a single second as they come upon the three ladies. “ _That_ is the idea of Goro Akechi.”

“Sounds awful, I wouldn’t like to know him.”

“Hush now, you.”

“Alright, but . . .” Akira hesitates, then continues, “She’s a queen, right? Why would she want to marry her daughter off to you?”

Goro laughs. “Royal bloodlines are fickle things, from the way she tells it, but theirs especially so. If she can get Ann married to me, then she can worry about things other than her family’s eventual fall from nobility.”

“Oh, Goro!” It is Ann that notices them first, and her bright smile is quickly replaced with confusion as she takes in the man next to him. “And . . . Akira?”

“Ah,” Goro says plainly. “You know one another, then. Here I thought I might acquaint you.”

“Well, of course. My parents have always been invited to Lord Sakura’s balls when we are able to attend, and it is a little hard to miss Akira there when he is around Lady Futaba all the time.”

“You didn’t think to tell me this?” he asks Akira, but the other man only shrugs.

“You wanted an escape from Queen Estrela, didn’t you? I would have thought that you would be a little more grateful.”

Ann snorts, a decidedly unladylike sound to make, but Goro refrains from comment. “Goro Akechi? _Grateful?_ Now that would be something.”

He inhales deeply, then waves the words away with a shake of his head, extending a hand toward Ann. “I apologize for stealing your company away,” he says with a brief glance at the Yoshizawa twins, “but I promised Ann a dance tonight.”

“Did you now?” Ann asks, though she humors him and takes his outstretched hand. “This is the first that I’ve heard of it myself.”

“I promised your mother to promise you a dance,” he corrects, then nods toward Akira. “I know he and Ann are nothing alike, but he is surely a suitable enough replacement for her company whilst I steal her away. He can entertain you in the meantime.”

Kasumi smiles, always quick to show kindness, even to a stranger. “It will be the other way around, I believe. For a steward of a notable noble house, Master Kurusu, you look quite out of place here.”

“I do not often have the time to attend such affairs . . .”

“Goro?” He blinks and glances toward Ann. “Are you alright?”

“Just splendid,” he is quick to say. “Although, if we could get this over with, I would greatly appreciate it. In truth, I only wanted an excuse to get away from your mother. Her constant pressing for our engagement troubles me at times.”

Ann’s answering laugh is a sweet sound, nothing like the insincere chuckles that echo around them, and if only Goro could get drunk on the sound, he would. So desperate is his desire, sometimes, to feel even a fraction of romantic affection for his dear friend. If they felt anything of the sort for one another, it would make both of their lives a great deal easier.

But in the same way Goro feels nothing for her, she too feels nothing for him. They are better as friends, despite how they wish they could be something more. Still, their hopes do not replace the love that relationships are meant to be built upon, though they seldom are.

“Mother is a bit much without father or myself to keep her in check,” Ann says as she sweeps herself into a curtsy as the song changes. He bows deeply in response, and as the music begins to kick in, they fall into the rhythm of these same practiced steps, rehearsed hundreds upon thousands of times.

“She is,” he agrees, spinning her around as the musicians pick up the pace and the music swells higher and higher. “Foreign royalty she might be, but she certainly fits in a little too perfectly with the local nobility. You two are quite different.”

“Please, I do not need the reminder. I hear it enough from my parents.”

“I much prefer you as you are, if it does anything to put your mind at ease.”

“Believe me, I know. I have suffered through your complaints of your father’s acquaintances. What was it that you called them? Spineless fools without a backbone to support the show of nobility they try to put on, were your exact words, if I recall correctly.”

“The point still stands.”

“It does.”

They fall into a comfortable silence here, as the music begins to slow and their practiced dancing shifts into slow swaying in time to the beat. However loud the room might truly be, it feels quiet here, almost safe, and he allows himself a moment longer to linger in the feeling.

Then the music comes to a stop, and when they pull away, the spell is broken. With a heavy sigh, he bows again.

“Princess Ann.”

Ann returns it with a curtsy in kind.

“Master Akechi.”

He rises and there is a brief flicker of a grin on his face as he takes her hand again, just before he catches sight of Akira behind her. The sight of him is a perfect reminder of what they have come to do, and suddenly the weight in his chest is all too heavy, and he cannot breathe, he cannot _breathe,_ _he cannot breathe_ —

“Goro,” Ann says quietly. “Are you certain that you are alright?”

“Of course,” he replies, the answer automatic. “Excuse me, Ann. I shouldn’t leave Akira alone for too long.”

“Hey.” She catches him by the wrist before he can pull away, tugging on it so he turns to face her. “If you refuse to tell me, that is fine. I am used to you keeping your secrets. Still . . . you _can_ talk to me, you know. I am your friend, and even if I am not here, I will happily receive your letters.”

“Thank you, Ann.” He shrugs out of her grip and watches her face fall. It is a familiar feeling, having to disappoint her. “But as I said, I am fine. I promised Akira a circle around the room before the night ends, and I am nothing but a man of my word.”

“You always have some sort of secret, don’t you?” She sighs. “Keep your secrets from me if you have to, Goro. At the very least, I am glad you have Akira to confide in.”

He scoffs. “Whoever said I was confiding in him?”

“Oh?” He does not like the smile that spreads across her lips. “You mean to tell me that you two are not close? Come now, Goro, give me a little credit. I know you better than that.” She pats his shoulder as they near the place where Akira stands, conversing casually with the Yoshizawa twins. “Akira is a good listener, I can give him that much, and he has a wealth of secrets of his own. You two match!”

“We do not _match,_ ” Goro snaps.

“Who is matching?” Akira asks, turning at the sound of their voices.

“No one,” Goro answers before Ann can cut in. “My apologies for having to interrupt your conversation, but I did promise you more introductions.”

“You’re not interrupting anything, I was just telling Kasumi and Sumire about my plans to ask you to dance.”

Goro ignores the hand that Akira holds out to him. He can barely process the fact that he is on a first name basis with both twins, and so soon after meeting them. Now he has to puzzle out what this strange request of his to dance could possibly mean.

“You want to dance,” he says plainly, “with me.”

“Ah, and his ears work!” Akira winks at the three ladies, taking Goro’s hand despite his protests. “Thank you for your company. I look forward to discussing the Marchioness Sakura’s collaboration with your father further.”

“We’ll be in touch!” Kasumi calls after them as Akira pulls him away. Yet as soon as they are out of sight from the three, Akira’s face falls, exhaustion creeping in at the edges, and he wonders at the ease with which he is able to mask his true emotions.

“Let’s go somewhere quiet,” Akira says softly in his ear. “I think I have seen enough of these crowds to last me a lifetime.”

“Once is always one too many times.” Goro gestures toward one of the empty balconies off to the side of the room. “Come. No one ever goes out to see the stars.”

“Does the famed Goro Akechi I keep hearing about like the stars?” Akira asks as they emerge into the quiet night, the muted sounds of the music from within following them outside. “He does not seem fond of many things.”

“I like the quiet,” he answers quietly, drifting toward the railing. “And I like to be alone.”

“Sorry to ruin that for you, but I’m afraid you’ll have to deal with me.” Akira joins him after a few moments of quiet, and together they stare out at the stars.

Of course, the other man is the first to break it. “I did mean what I said, you know. About wanting to dance with you.”

“That isn’t how this works.”

“Why not?”

“This isn’t how this works.”

“Repeating yourself does not help your case any. Why are you so averse to one dance?”

He turns to his companion sharply. “Fine. You want to dance so badly? Let’s dance.” He tugs on the other man’s hand, lays it on his own shoulder, positions them both so they can sway in time to the beat of the music.

For a moment, they just stand there, swaying in the night, and he wants to drown in this silence forever.

Then Akira, leans his head against Goro’s, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. “Why couldn’t we just be normal? This would be so much easier if we were.”

_Why couldn’t we?_ Goro echoes in his mind. He wonders if it would change anything. He wonders why he cares.

“Life does not care about what is easy or what is kind.” Goro closes his eyes. “If everything went smoothly, what would be the point?”

“Ah, ever the voice of reason. I knew I liked you for some reason, behind all of your thorns.”

“You shouldn’t.”

_This can only end in flames._

“I know.”

And when the song comes to an end, they linger for just a single second longer, hands wrapped around each other, comfortable in this single moment that they have.

“Ready?” Akira asks quietly.

“No. Let us go.”

But then the door to the balcony opens behind them, and the sound is jarring enough to force them both apart.

“Father,” Goro says immediately at the sight of one his grace, one Masayoshi Shido, dressed as impeccably as money can afford, and he is smiling. The sight is unsettling. “Can I help you with something?”

His father hums, gaze flickering over to Akira, who waits just a step behind him. “You can first humor me as to what you are doing out here, then why you are here with the Amamiya boy.”

Goro freezes. “Who?”

There is his father’s smirk now, right at home on his face. “Ren Amamiya, the only son of the Amamiyas. A son I seem to remember giving you specific instructions to get rid of, along with the rest of his family.”

“Old man,” Goro hisses, “what the hell are you talking about?”

“There is that foul mouth, that sharp tongue.” His father shakes his head, almost pityingly. “Don’t tell me, my son, that your friend here did not tell you the truth? He goes by Akira Kurusu now, isn’t that right? Did you tell him that you killed his beloved Sojiro Sakura as well?”

Akira has gone still behind him, and Goro does not need to turn to know that however angry he is, the other man is likely feeling the same thing ten times over.

_No, no, no._ This is not how he wanted to do this.

“Goro.”

“I know.”

“ _Goro._ ”

He grits his teeth. “ _I know._ ” He cannot look at Akira. He will not. He _refuses_ to. He has had so much stolen from him by his father. So many firsts, so many confessions, so many friendships, all crumbled to nothing by his hand. Now Masayoshi Shido has stolen this from him too, the one person that Goro had been willing to confess to, the one person Goro had been willing to trust with his secret.

Yet even beyond that . . .

He cannot believe that he did not even _know_. He cannot believe Akira has been lying to his face this whole time and he had never even realized.

So much for no more secrets. They had both still been hiding behind their empty promises.

“Once you are done here, Goro,” his father smoothly cuts in, the cocky grin on his face not quite matching the formality of his tone, “I will be expecting you in my office. Be quick about it.”

“Of course, _father,_ ” he replies tensely. “Give me a moment to show Master Kurusu out, and I will be there right away.”

“Akechi,” Akira snaps when his father is long gone. “I want an explanation and I want one now.”

“Oh, like you can talk?” he snaps back. “Were you ever going to tell me who you really were, _Ren Amamiya?_ Or did you plan on lying me for as long as we knew each other?”

“That wasn’t relevant!” Akira shouts, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation as he paces away. “That had nothing to do with the case, and my personal life is none of your business.”

“Then I don’t see why my personal dealings have anything to with you.”

Akira spins around, snarling. “You _killed Sojiro_. You _killed my parents_. I think that crosses the line when it comes to your personal dealings.”

“Maybe I should have made sure that I killed you too!” The words are out before Goro even realizes that he has said them, but he presses his lips together and steels himself. “What do you want me to say, Akira? Is this really your breaking point? I murder a man before you and you swear yourself to secrecy. I reveal I am part of a sprawling criminal empire and you look the other way. What do I have to do for you to stop placing your faith in me? _I am not a good person._ If you could just understand that, maybe you wouldn’t be so disappointed in me all the time.”

“Right, that is my fault for wanting to believe in you.”

“There is _nothing_ to believe in. How hard is that for you to grasp?”

“How hard is it for you to grasp that I want to see the good in you?”

“There is no good here. You are searching for light where there is none. I am ghost already, do you not understand? The Goro Akechi that you want to believe in _died_ the day he shot his mother. I am going to vanish one day, and you will see there was no point to caring.”

Akira shakes his head. “Enough of this. Shouldn’t you go and see your father? Maybe he has some other family for you to go and murder. I’ll see myself out.”

“Then just _get out_ already,” Goro snaps.

He does not know why he is hurt when Akira turns away or surprised when he watches him leave. Perhaps he merely wants someone to keep believing in him, even when he turns them away, even when he cannot believe in himself. Perhaps he merely craves the fight that Akira always brings with him.

Perhaps he is just selfish.

Still, it hurts more than it should.

_“Ah,”_ says a voice, _“there is your heart.”_

Goro turns away from Akira’s retreating figure and up toward the night sky.

Some nights, he wishes it would just swallow him whole.

  


* * *

  


To return to the Sakura Manor after his last conversation with Akira is bittersweet, a reminder of all that he could have had and all that he has already lost, but when Futaba’s invitation to a small party in honor of the deceased Marquis Sakura’s birthday had arrived in his mail, he simply could not say no.

So, now, here he is.

It is not, according the Futaba’s letter, an actual party, perse. A gathering between friends, a celebration of the life of a wonderful man, a chance to catch up over tea. That was how it had been described, and she had promised that there would only be a few people in attendance.

She had neglected to mention the presence of his previous fiancée, Haru Okumura, though he does not know why he is even surprised when he steps into the room and finds her chatting with Futaba over tea. They are friends, after all, and he cannot expect the Marchioness Sakura to have kept up with his affairs in the time they had been parted.

“Goro!” she calls when her gaze finds him, her eyes lighting up when he waves in her direction. “Come here for a moment, I want to introduce you.”

He winces, but drifts over to where the two are seated. Both he and Haru finds themselves avoiding the other’s gaze.

“This is Haru Okumura,” Futaba presses on, oblivious to the discomfort of her two companions. “She hasn’t officially inherited her father’s titles yet, but she will be a duchess soon.”

“I am aware, Futaba,” he says, unable to hide his grimace from his expression and tone both. “We are . . . acquainted.”

“Lady Futaba,” Haru says, stiffly but not unkindly. “Akechi and I were . . . um.”

“Engaged,” he awkwardly finishes for her. “We were engaged.”

Futaba’s eyes go comically wide, and he would laugh if it were not at his own discomfort. “Engaged? You two were— _oh_.” She turns back to Haru. “ _He_ is the horrible fiancé you keep telling me about?”

It is Haru’s turn to grimace, and Goro takes it as his sign to extricate himself from the conversation before either of them have to be subjected to any further suffering.

A cursory glance around the room immediately draws his gaze to Akira, who for once looks relaxed in the company of nobility. He recognizes the Yoshizawa twins by his side, Ann lounging nearby, and—

“Hello, Kitagawa,” he greets the boy, who has positioned himself in a quieter corner of the room. “I hope I am not intruding.”

“Master Akechi,” Kitagawa greets, surprising Goro by looking up to spare him a glance. “As long as you are quiet, I can tolerate your company for a while.”

“Lovely. However, do tell me if you wish for me to depart elsewhere. I promise you will not hurt my feelings.”

“I am always honest with you, Master Akechi. With that, I will say that you look quite awful today.” Kitagawa frowns. “Not that . . . you look like you get much sleep any day of the week, but it is especially worse today. A new case?”

“Ah.” He smiles politely, but wonders if he truly look does look so awful that even Kitagawa has chosen to comment on it. “No, not this time, I am afraid. It seems I have simply not been getting enough sleep recently.”

“Hm,” Kitagawa hums noncommittally, his thoughts already drifting elsewhere.

He is content to pass the time sitting with the other man in silence when Futaba herself comes to speak to him. Goro tilts his head slightly to the side to peek at Haru, then finding her in conversation with Nijima, who he has yet to speak to since their disastrous assignment at Leblanc, turns back to the marchioness.

“Hey, Inari,” she says. “Do you mind if I steal Goro away for a while?”

Kitagawa waves them away. “By all means.”

Futaba shoots him a tentative smile. “Just a moment, if it’s alright with you.”

“I am not mad at you, Futaba,” he says as he stands to follow her out into the hall. When the door to the sitting room shuts behind them, he shakes his head. “There is no need to apologize for that.”

“Well, I am sorry anyway, but that was not all I wanted to talk about.” She glances around, though they are the only two in the hall, the lowers her voice to whisper, “What happened that night when you and Akira went to Lord Shido’s ball?”

Goro blinks, caught off-guard. He would have at least expected Akira to have explained it to her. It appears not. “He has not told you?”

Futaba shrugs helplessly. “I mean, I have tried, but Akira can be stubborn when he wants to be.”

“Sounds familiar enough.”

She eyes him accusingly. “It does, doesn’t it?”

Goro crosses his arms and shakes his head. “I don’t know why you expect me to tell you anything.”

“Fine!” She throws her hands into the air, exasperated. “Both of you can keep your secrets. I am not blind, I can tell that you are avoiding each other.”

“Nothing to concern yourself with.”

“ _Of course_ I am going to concern myself with it. Both of you are my friends. Maybe even my family! Yet all you do is make me worry!”

He inhales deeply. “Futaba, there is nothing to talk about. We got into a fight. That is all.”

“Obviously it is _not_ all. You and Akira get into little squabbles all the time, why is this different?”

“Because it was _not_ a little squabble,” he snaps before he can keep his temper in check. “If you are quite done with this interrogation, then I will be going now.”

“What are you running from, Goro?” she asks quietly.

He turns back to the sitting room and does not respond.

Kitagawa has joined the group gathering about Akira, so Goro takes the quiet corner where he had been seated and gazes out the window, unwilling to make conversation. When the sofa dips beside him, he sighs. “Futaba—”

“Not Lady Futaba,” Haru says primly as she fixes her skirts. “Good morning, Master Akechi. How do you fare today?”

“You are not here to make idle conversation, Lady Okumura. Get on with it.”

“As rude as ever, I see.” Haru casts her heavy gaze toward him, and he shifts slightly under its weight. “Also just as stubborn as I remember. If you continue to push others away from you, soon you will find that there is no one left.”

“There is already no one left. That is the way it must be.”

“Also blind, and foolish to boot. Lady Futaba does not ask after you and pester you because she does not care. Quite the opposite, in fact. Master Kurusu does not look your way when you are not paying attention because he detests you. He does so because he wants an apology.”

“Do not pretend that you understand me, Lady Okumura.”

“I _do not_ understand you, Master Akechi,” Haru says, and he feels sick at the underlying kindness in her tone. “I can admit that I once thought I did, but I understand now that the man I was trying to understand was not truly you. Do not take my words the wrong way. I have not forgiven you, and I fear that I never will.”

He scowls. “Why are you speaking to me, then?”

“I have no desire to see you ruin another one of your relationships. Be stubborn, if you must, but I will not sit idly by while you drive yourself once more into ruin. I care for you that much, still.” She stands and nods. “I do not wish to extend this conversation for any longer than it needs to be. I have said my piece. Good day, Master Akechi.”

Goro rises from his seat after she departs, suddenly not so inclined to stay around for whatever else the party holds. He feels Futaba’s gaze on him all the while as Haru rejoins her, stiffens ever so slightly when the weight of Akira’s lands on him as he passes.

He slows for a moment when he comes upon their group— _why?_ To apologize? He will do nothing of the sort—but presses on for the door.

He remembers not the walk back to the quaint place he calls home, but the relief he feels when he comes upon it is immense. This, at the very least, is his. Even if everything else had come from his father, this is his. This, he had worked for, blood, sweat, and tears.

He opens the door. There is no one waiting for him, of course, for he lives alone now, but he wonders what it might be like to have someone to welcome you when you arrive.

“Goro, is that you?” Haru had always said when he arrived home after work, when this space had also been hers and not just his own. It had always been so full then, always so lively. In comparison, this space he calls home now feels hollow. Empty.

“Yes, Haru,” he would have replied, searching through rooms until he found the one she had chosen to spend the day in. “What are you doing now?” he would then ask, for she always had a way of busying her hands when he was not around.

“Hm? Oh, just gardening.” Indeed, she had a row of plants set up on the windowsill, watering them with a careful hand. “Come join me for a moment. You work too much, Goro. Take a break.”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” he always said. There was always work to keep him busy. Never any time to slow down, even for his own fiancée. “A new case just came in.” He did not tell her, then, that it was her father’s case, did not reveal the dirty secrets that a man like Kunikazu Okumura had to hide. He thought it was a kindness to keep her in ignorance.

He should have known better. Ignorance is never kind.

  


* * *

  


The sky was crying that night, like it knew what was to come, sheets of rain pouring down from the gloomy skies. Situated under a ledge as they were, both bearing grim expressions to match the weather, neither Goro nor Haru was particularly drenched from the heavy downpour, the former standing further under ledge and the latter holding an umbrella over her head. They stood in silence, letting the discomfort that built around them speak for what words could not. They, like the sky, knew what was to come.

“When you said you would marry me, was that a lie too?”

Goro winced, took a step back, only to find himself against a wall. There was no good answer to her question, no detour that his mind could find to avoid the truth. He loved her, of course he did, but he could never love her in the way that he was expected to, could never make her his bride. There was no path for both of them that had a happily ever after, no story that did not end with him revealing the dirty truth of their engagement.

After all, how were you supposed to tell your fiancée that you killed her father?

It was better this way, better that she never learned the truth, better that it was him she thought ill of, in the end. Yet it was not better, nothing about this situation could ever be remotely good, but the lies kept him standing, kept him going, else he feared he would fall here and never rise again.

“Yes. It was a lie. Everything was a lie.” He cannot tell her the truth. It would be so easy to break down, to explain who he was, what he did, why he did it, but he cannot. Better that she knew only the bare surface of it. He sent Okumura to jail. He died there. He used her. It is his fault. Better that she not know the truth at all. His hands tightened into fists at his side, his heart clenched.

It did not have to end this way, but that was the wishful thinking of a boy who could afford his innocence. Goro cannot, not anymore, not if it means he will pay for it with his life.

“I needed a way to your father, a way to put him in prison for good.” He tugged at his gloves, a nervous tick that his employer was fond of pointing out. He stopped. “The engagement was . . . a lucky coincidence.” It was not a coincidence, just another setup so Goro could accomplish what he was assigned. “It wasn’t supposed to go so deep, we were never supposed to actually get married, I just—”

“I trusted you,” she interrupted, her grip tightening around her fan. “For the first time, I thought I had finally met someone who understood, who wanted nothing from me but their own freedom.”

Trust. What a silly thing to give to other people. “That was your mistake,” he said, and the tone of his voice was icier than he had intended, but it was too late to stop and apologize. The time for that had passed. “I am a detective, first and foremost. My duty is to the law and to justice. If you knew the extent of what your father had done, would you have sat idly by and watched? It was my responsibility to bring him down and I will not say I have any regrets.” No regrets, no regrets, no regrets. _He had no regrets._ “I am sorry that you were caught in the middle of it all, for whatever that is worth,” he offers lamely, but their quarrel goes beyond what his golden smile and silver tongue can fix.

“They are worth _nothing_.” He saw her slip away, then. He watched the familiarity in her eyes recede, her form tense up before loosening ever so slightly as she distanced herself from him. No longer the Haru he spent long nights laughing with as they talked aimlessly over tea, but Lady Okumura, with whom he had first been acquainted with through an unfortunate accident, polite but reserved. He did not know if this bridge was one that could ever be mended. He did not know if he would ever have the heart to try. “I hope I never see you within these grounds again. Good day, detective.” She nodded her head farewell and turned her back to him, and it was yet another door that closed within his heart.

Never again, he swore. _Never again._

  


* * *

  


Goro stands in the doorway of Akira’s room. A mistake, he has made a terrible mistake, for seeing the other boy only forces his feelings up, into his throat, until he eventually chokes on them, but it is too late now. It is always too late by the time he realizes his mistakes. Just like with his mother. Just like with Sae. Just like with Haru.

_Never again._

He does not know why he is here, why he has come. He cannot remember the series of events that has led him here in the rain, so late at night. His mind is a blur, his thoughts hazy. It is all he can do to remember his own name, the reason why he has come.

That is right. He does have a reason. He remember it now, and it only serves to deepen the pit in his stomach.

The clock ticks closer and closer to midnight, the rain pours in sheets outside. He should have been at home, asleep. He should not have come.

Goro never does what he is supposed to.

He does not realize that he is crying until the tears begin to trickle, falling in slow streams down his face. His knees buckle and he is falling, falling, falling, but Akira is there, arms wrapping around him, slowly lowering them both to the ground. A broken sound escapes his lips, a noise torn from a part deep inside of him, a part that he had buried long ago. It surfaces now, and this time he does not attempt to drown it. These sorrows had long ago learned to swim, he had simply learned to ignore them. Now, they break through.

“Goro?” Akira gently untangles them from one another as he stands, and Goro reaches toward him helplessly, choking down on another sob. The other boy immediately kneels back down, a gloved hand cupping his face, making soft sounds that he thinks are meant to soothe him, but only make him sob harder. Stupid, dumb feelings. Idiotic, foolish boy. His heart goes pitter patter, and he wants it to stop, stop, _stop_. “Hey, I’m just going to get a blanket, alright? You’re soaking, I don’t want you to get sick.”

Goro curls into himself, arms wrapping around his knees, his body wracked with shivers as he cries. What a fool he has become, since the Sakuras first returned to his life. He was supposed to be the brilliant private investigator, Akechi Goro. Not some dumb child who caught a bad case of feelings, running toward the boy he loved in the dead of night under pouring rain. Not some lonely boy who suddenly had to face the fact that he was plotting to murder his father, as though that was somehow worse than playing hitman for his old man, somehow worse than putting a bullet through his own mother’s head.

What was _wrong_ with him?

Nothing. _Everything_.

“Come on, before someone passes through the hall and sees you.” Akira returns with a blanket clutched in his hands, which he drapes around Goro’s shoulders before helping him to his feet. Goro is so, so cold, and the other boy is so, so warm, who can blame him if he leans in just a little closer? He thinks he hears the door click shut, but the sound is distant, faraway. Nothing seems real anymore except for the biting cold of his own body and the intense warmth of the boy next to him. They reach his bed and Goro immediately sinks into the mattress and lets himself fall backward onto it. Akira hesitates for a single second, then follows suit.

“You should be mad,” Goro whispers. “Why aren’t you?”

“I _am_ mad,” Akira says slowly, the same way he always does when he is thinking through his words. Unlike Goro. Impulsive, stubborn, and headstrong Akechi Goro, who ruined everything with a slip of his tongue. “Furious, actually. Still, I wasn’t going to turn you away while you were crying and drenched in rain. Anger can wait a little while.”

Silence reigns again, broken only by the occasional choked out sob. Had he been in Akira’s position, what would he have done? Turned him away, to be certain, for a golden smile he might have had but his heart had long since frozen over. Compassion, kindness, they are such _human_ emotions, so why do they feel so terribly foreign? Why does he cringe away from compassion, startle when offered kindness?

He knows the answer, of course, even if he refuses to voice it aloud. He lost the first dregs of his humanity when he shot his mother, continued to lose more and more with each person he killed, until eventually he had begun to think with logic and facts, rather than with emotion and feeling.

Was Lord Sakura the tipping point then, the last one before any hope of return vanished?

No. Lord Sakura was a person. And he had killed him.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” Akira asks after a long moment. Goro says nothing in response, staring blankly up at the ceiling. Akira must take his silence as a refusal to talk, because he continues, “Or we can just lie here too. That works. Do you want some coffee? Tea?” He recognizes the itch in the other boy to do something, to be helpful, to be _anything_ other than useless. Instead, he can only watch as Goro cries, shaking from the pent-up sorrow and grief and rage that has been building since the day he killed his mother, so many years ago.

“I’m going to kill my father,” he finally says as the other boy begins to sit up. “Tomorrow.”

Akira stares down at him for a moment, then whispers, “Oh.” Goro says nothing again. What could he possibly say? He is a liar, a thief, a murderer, and here he is, proving that he is all that and more. He is a murderer, a murderer, a murderer. He is going to kill his father. “How are you feeling?”

How is he feeling? What a foolish question. How could he even begin to describe it? His whole world feels as though it has been turned upside down, like his father might step out of the shadows at any moment to put a bullet in his head, a knife through his heart. He is lost, he is confused, he is scared.

“I’m tired,” is what he says, because he is. He has been tired for so long, and he cannot even remember when it first begun. Did it start when he discovered the truth of his heritage, that his father was not some no name man his mother had met one lonely night, but the one and only Masayoshi Shido? Did it start when his father had found him and his mother, taking them both under his care? Did it start with them foolishly believing that his father truly wanted them to be safe, or did it begin with Goro picking up a gun by his father’s orders to put his mother’s life to an end, once and for all? Where did it start? Where would it end? “I’m so incredibly tired.”

“Yeah,” Akira murmurs in response. “It’s alright to be tired.”

After a moment of hesitation, he silently laces their fingers together until their hands are clasped together, and they lay there in silence, awaiting the next dawn to come, the final closing to their story that it will bring with it. There is nothing else to do but wait, and look forward to the new dawn, the last dawn.

“I’m sorry.” _I’m sorry that I lied. I’m sorry that there were so many things I never got to say. I’m sorry that we will never have more than this. I’m sorry that I even dare to want more than this._ Still, all he says is, “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Akira says quietly in reply, and even if he does not say anything more, Goro can tell. He knows.

Tomorrow will come, then Goro Akechi will die in a blaze of his own making, with no one left to remember him in this world.

_Will he care? Is there anyone else left to care when I’m gone?_

He decides that it does not matter.

He falls asleep with his tears drying on his face, comforted by the fact that they may not have an eternity together, but they have now, and that is more than he has had in a long time.

  


* * *

  


Akira awakens and Goro is gone.

For a single, fleeting moment, he wonders if the previous night had simply been a hallucination, some imaginary scene that his mind created in lieu of having the real Goro Akechi for company. He had grown . . . fond, yes, of the other man’s companionship, had grown used to spending idle days by his side as they tried to get to the bottom of Sojiro’s death, tried to find the criminal behind the crime.

And _he_ was the criminal, a small detail that he had done everything to hide. No traces, no tracks, no evidence left behind. Akira had almost been played for a fool. If Goro’s father had never revealed the truth, if he had never discovered Goro’s true motives for himself, where would they be now?

Nowhere, he supposes. There would have been no _they_.

He could laugh, he could sigh, he could cry. When his hand finds the sheets next to him, he is not even surprised when his grip only tangles in cloth, not even warm from the other man’s presence. Goro Akechi has disappeared from his life like a ghost, exactly how he had promised he would.

_I’m sorry._

An apology for everything. For nothing. All the same, he accepts it. If not now, then eventually.

Akira rises and gets to work. It is all he can do for the other man now.

All he can do for Goro Akechi’s ghost is to move on.

~~Still, the heart remembers.~~

  


* * *

  


Futaba is not surprised when she hears the news. Nothing he does surprises her anymore.

_His grace, Masayoshi Shido was found murdered in his own manor several days prior. His body was found early morning by a newsboy, who had been passing by and noticed the lord’s dead body propped up on one of the benches within his manor’s garden. Behind him, the Shido Estate burned._

_When asked for any further details he might have noticed, the newsboy only mentions that he briefly saw a figure through one of the manor’s windows, though it easily could have been a reflection. It was hard to tell, he said._

_When authorities arrived on the scene, they discovered the rest of the manor’s inhabitants alive in an abandoned storage warehouse several blocks away. One reportedly said that they were ushered out and to safety by a man in black believed to be the culprit of the crime, but his face was obscured by a hood and a mask, and he refused to speak, only communicating through messages he seemed to have prewritten. When asked if they recognized the handwriting, all members of the Shido Household said they did not._

“What are you bringing me this for?” Futaba asks Akira, who stands stiffly across her desk. His hands are folded neatly behind his back, and he bows when she addresses him.

“Forgive me, milady, I only wished to bring you the news of—”

“Alright, stop.” Futaba holds up both of her hands as she speaks, and Akira immediately halts his speech, rising from his bow. “You’ve been acting strange lately. Is this why?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Morgana meows from where he is perched on one of the room’s many bookshelves, in a tone that seemed to say he was agreement.

The smallest of frowns creases his face, but Akira only shakes his head. “My apologies, milady, but I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Excuse me, please, I must take my leave.”

Futaba stares after the space he has left and bites her lips. She has sworn to herself that she will not cry.

~~Still, the tears fall.~~

  


* * *

  


It is only a week later when Lady Okumura receives the news.

“Detective Nijima,” the young lady had greeted the detective with a smile. “Have you come for tea? How might I help you?”

“There’s been a breakthrough in the case.”

Lady Okumura raises an eyebrow now, lifting her teacup to her lips. She takes a sip, then dips her head slightly to the side, toward the open seat. “I’ll admit that I’m not quite sure what the duke’s case has to do with me, but I’ll kindly ask that you, at the very least, take a seat before proceeding.”

Detective Nijima sighs, but does as the young lady says. She accepts the offered tea, but her hands only tap idly against the porcelain teacup she is given. For a long moment, there is silence.

Then, “Goro is dead.”

Glass shatters, and Detective Nijima immediately reaches for her weapon, unsure as to what the sound’s source exactly is. It is her job to assume the worse, and she is halfway out of her seat before the lady has a chance to stop her.

“Ah, there is no need to be alarmed, detective.” Haru smiles thinly, a gentle hand on Detective Nijima’s shoulder as she guides the older woman back to her seat. “My apologies, you simply startled me. I did not mean to scare you. I only dropped my teacup.”

Indeed, there is a quickly spreading tea stain on the carpeted floor, but there are already maids hurrying to deal with the mess.

“So,” Haru says, so obviously striving for a polite tone, “what brings you here to deliver such news?”

“The dead man himself brought me here, actually.” The detective scoffs and shakes her head in dismay. “We’ll just say that I owed him, not that I expected him to use it to call in this last favor. He specifically asked that I deliver this news to you as well.”

“I . . .” Fleetingly, a small frown crosses her face, but it disappears just as quickly, hidden behind a composed exterior. “I see. Thank you, then, Detective Nijima. Will you stay for tea?”

The detective is already standing, shaking her head. “I’m afraid not. You’re not the only person on his list, and I intend to get this done before the day’s end.”

“That’s a rather specific set of instructions,” Haru comments offhandedly as another maid arrives with a new teacup to replace the one shattered on the floor.

“It is,” is all that Detective Nijima says before she departs.

The news is delivered to the Takamaki family’s daughter in a similarly blunt fashion, brought to the Yoshizawa children during a brief visit to also meet with their father. Yusuke Kitagawa receives the news with little fanfare, conveyed by the detective through a secondhand message from his teacher.

Only the Sakura Household has the pleasure of an explanation.

“Alright, I’m going to need you to explain that again, but slower.”

“Goro is dead,” Detective Nijima repeats for the third time with an exasperated sigh. “He confessed to all his crimes, including his father’s murder, and admitted that the fire at the Shido Estate was nothing but one grandiose suicide. He left it all in a letter delivered to my office several hours after the fact. His handwriting matches that of the notes shown to the servants of the manor, and was further compared to other writings we were able to find within his office. There is no other evidence left to be found in this case, and we have no reason to believe that he cannot be the killer.”

“And what? You’re just going to take this random note he supposedly left you as solid proof to condemn him? I am supposed to _believe_ you?”

“Lady Sakura, we are not condemning _anyone_. There is _no one_ left to condemn. Goro Akechi is dead.”

The marchioness is stubborn, just like her father. There is a fire that burns too bright in her eyes. If she is not careful, she will burn, and the flames will take down more than just herself. “How do you know that for sure?”

Detective Nijima remembers the letter now, the offhanded way he had laid out his plan, had mentioned that there was a body to find, even though they both knew that the force would have accepted his confession without it. The corruption that ran through the police . . . it is a corruption that runs far too deep. They never would have thought twice about it.

But he had known that she would ask.

“I saw his body.” It is more than enough to stop Lady Sakura right in her tracks. Even the stoic Master Kurusu’s mouth is left agape at her words. “It was a little hard, considering the fire but . . . there was scarcely any doubt about it.” She grimaces, though not for the reasons the other two might think. Regardless, it must be convincing, because the young lady steps down.

“I . . . That _idiot,_ ” Lady Sakura whispers. “What was he _thinking?_ ”

It is Master Kurusu that speaks for his lady. “Thank you, detective. I can show you to the door.”

“No, it’s alright. I know the way.”

Master Kurusu hesitates for just a moment. “Detective . . . will _you_ be alright?”

She presses her lips into a flat line. Nods. She has been lying all day, what is one more? “Thank you for your concern, Master Kurusu, but this is nothing new in my line of work. He and I worked together, yes, but it was a long time ago. I’ll be alright.”

  


* * *

  


_Sae._

_You must think that I’ve no reason to ask you for anything and you’ve no reason to fulfill my requests, but I’ll remind you here that I once saved your life, even if you refuse to admit it. Allow me to put that card into play now. It’s been hidden up my sleeve for so long, after all, and I’ve been so patient in using it._

_For all intents and purposes, I am dead. Goro Akechi’s body lies in the abandoned storage warehouse where you found the Shido household, my father excluded, of course. You’ll have to forgive me for the scene. My father always liked to put a little flair into things. I figured I would entertain him for his own death._

_You already know that it is me, I’m sure, and if not, surprise! I, Goro Akechi, am the criminal behind the esteemed Masayoshi Shido’s death. I don’t have the time nor do I have the patience to list down each and every unsolved case that the force has, so instead I will offer you the name Loki and allow your imagination to run wild._ I _am Loki, because I know you cannot do much without that small confirmation of your suspicions._

_Now, there is the confession, and all those cases are closed. I do intend to ask you to burn this letter, so if you’ve not opened it yet, the second paper enclosed in the envelope is just a confession. End the chapter on all those cases now, if you will. I’m sure I’ve outlined sufficient proof in that second letter that I committed every one of those crimes._

_Now, a favor. As I said prior, for all intents and purposes, Goro Akechi is dead. My apologies that you won’t have anyone to put behind bars, but believe me when I say it will be better this way. For me, at least. I’m sure this will weigh heavy on your heart, so I will remind you once more of the aforementioned lifesaving and leave it at that. Your morals really are strange, but I won’t question them when they align in my favor._

_I need to ~~go~~ ~~vanish~~ disappear. ~~I’m so tired.~~ So I’m going. I’m disappearing._

_~~This is the way it has to be.~~ _

_All I ask of you is that the news of my death spreads around to where it needs to go. There will be people who will look for me, no matter where I go, until they learn of my death—or, otherwise, my life. You might find the charred remains of a body left in the ashes. It should resemble me enough to pass, though obviously not so distinguishable that you would be able to tell that it wasn’t actually me._

_Finding the body was . . . a lucky coincidence. If it puts your heart at ease, he was already dead when I found him. I promise this wasn’t my doing. I’m not the only criminal you’ve left running through the streets._

_The rest, then, I entrust to you._

_Good luck._


End file.
